


but sorrow's fall

by aw marvel no (getoffmysheets)



Series: all the pleasures prove [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mentors and Mentoring, Parent Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Ride or Die Friendship, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Sibling Relationship, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers is a tiny badass, Steve isn't nice to himself, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, and his life is kind of Awful, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 64,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/aw%20marvel%20no
Summary: “I’m a con artist, a professional double-cross. SHIELD’s version of the IRS. An agent’s worst nightmare."My name is Steve Rogers and this is how I grew up to be a Spook.(my name is head spook and this is how i became steve rogers)





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you've already read "to live with thee" (which you should have I'm not sure what you're doing here if you haven't, but don't let me stop you), then you'll know I've avoided spending too much time discussing any of Steve's past beyond what was relevant in the immediate moment. 
> 
> Get ready to get spooky.

_"A voice said, Look me in the stars_

_And tell me truly, men of earth,_

_If all the soul-and-body scars_

_Were not too much to pay for birth."_

_\- "A Question", Robert Frost_

November 6th, 2005

The tiles are cold on his bare feet, but Steve pays it little attention. The sterile antiseptic smell of hospital is just as familiar as the scent of his own pillow. Morbid and comforting. There is a kind of solemn peace to walking the halls at night. It reminds Steve of a cemetery but that doesn’t put him off at all.

 

Steve Rogers’ entire life is one lonely cemetery.

 

The cold old tomb of his father, the fresh burial of his mother, and empty hole that has been patiently awaiting him for sixteen years.

 

They have admitted him for pneumonia, but he doesn’t know why they bother. Steve can’t outrun anything, much less death and destiny. He can’t sleep even though he’s always tired, and he doesn’t eat, and the nurses – old friends of Sarah Rogers – fret over him and whisper to each other, giving him worried glances over their shoulders.

 

They can feel it, too. They all know what’s waiting for Sarah’s little boy.

 

Just another sad grave, stone cold in the late New York autumn. The thought is nearly as peaceful as the dark hospital corridor. In a way, a part of him is already there, waiting beside his mother in her six-day-old grave.

 

Sixteen is too young to lose everything. Too vulnerable to lose every bond that tethered you to the world in the span of a few breaths and heartbeats.

 

An adult might say that’s teenage drama talking, but Sarah Rogers was very literally all that Steve had.

 

He was too ill throughout most of his childhood to actually have any real friends, spent most of his time sick in bed or struggling to make up his school work. By the time he was old enough to be overnight by himself, Sarah ended up homeschooling him during the day so that she could work the graveyard shift.

 

Steve, for all his problems, was a clever young man – he knew no one was going to jump to foster much less adopt a nearly grown teenage boy with his list of health problems. Asthma, a heart condition, poor circulation, poor immune system, allergies, general anxiety, social anxiety, depression…

 

Keeping track of his medications alone could be a full-time job, and over half of them were basic requirements just for Steve to keep living. The others ensured that he could do something other than cough or lay listlessly in a bed all day – or worse, end up in his current state. Unable to sleep and uninterested in food, Steve spends roughly eighteen hours a day staring at the same four walls, and the other six hours is spent crying in a room alone, refusing to acknowledge that a world exists beyond his own pain.

 

Well, he isn't doing that anymore. All the tears he's cried could fill an ocean, and it hasn't done him a damn bit of good. Steve isn't a strong man, but he refuses to be weak.

 

That night there is an older man standing by the entrance to the ward, staring at the sign. ‘Maria Stark Memorial Children’s Ward’. He has a fancy hat and dark hair and Steve, like a good New Yorker, is instantly suspicious of his appearance in the pediatrics unit. Coolly, he says “Visiting hours are over at 8.”

 

Howard Stark turns and looks at the boy. A first glance might suggest the child is only twelve or so – his height barely clears Howard’s shoulders, and his frame is all bones – standing out sharply at the collar, the elbows, the jaw, his knobby toes, and his thin wrists. Instead of a hospital gown, he wears a pair of yoga pants and a tee-shirt, his health in recent days too poorly maintained for the clothes to do anything but hang off of him.

 

But the moment he opens his mouth, he knows the boy is slipping through puberty. A body that small shouldn’t be able hold such a powerful tone. Howard quirks his mouth into a polite smile. “Not for parents.”

 

The boy’s eyes, deep and blue, are even colder than his voice, hard and flinty, his politely average American accent roughening a little. “But you ain’t one. Not for anyone here. Seen every parent here the past three days, and there ain’t been a new arrival since this morning.”

 

He likes him. He’s just as vicious and mistrustful as Wade promised – more so maybe. Even with his red-rimmed exhausted eyes, he looks like he may consider ripping out Howard’s throat with his teeth if he makes the wrong move. To prove a point? To protect the other children? Howard doesn’t know.

 

It’ll be important for them, going forward, to figure out what motivates him. Wade Neena, and Vanessa seem to think that he’s strongly moral, altruistic, which would be ideal. If it turns out to be simple bloodlust and aggression, Howard will be forced to take him off the watch-list and put him on their list of potential dangers for the East Coast units.

 

And Howard doesn’t have any doubts that he can be dangerous. A suspicion trigger that high coupled to that unflinching willingness to go for blood won’t get him anywhere nice or safe. Howard is pretty sure this one wouldn’t know what to do with nice or safe at this point anyway.

 

The boy is fading, and fast, but there’s still such a strong will there…it would be a shame to waste it.

 

“You’re right, I’m not a parent.” Gently tapping the lettering for the sign. “I come by now and then to see how my wife’s legacy is doing.”

 

To his pleasure, Steve doesn’t let up an inch, though he can see the pieces connecting in his mind, though there is still a disturbing remoteness to his face. He crosses his arms over his chest. “So, you visit kids in the middle of the night? That’s pretty fucking creepy, Mr. Stark.”

 

Howard resists the urge to smile. It won’t do for this one to think he is being laughed at – no, that won’t get him where he wants to go. “Sometimes. Less people fawning that way.”

 

“Mhm.” Steve is still unconvinced, and Howard can tell that he sniffs out the lying, hears the slight tang of untruth by his attitude.

 

Howard knows then that he only has one shot to do this. If he can’t convince him right here and right now, their chances to acquire Steve Rogers will be virtually zero. “Would you like a job, Steve?”

 

The flinty eyes are like oceans – deep, blue, cold. Not afraid, but frightening. Not shocked, but shocking. “How the hell do you know my name?”

 

“I know a lot of things,” he says calmly and shows him the badge from his pocket with his SHIELD identification inside. “We think you’d be perfect for our training program, Steve.”

 

Now Steve sneers. “This joke seems kind of petty for you, Stark.” Already dropping the polite ‘mister’ – the boy doesn’t respect authority farther than he can throw it. Howard hopes he gives Stoner hell on earth. Whoever is unfortunate enough to train him will have to be excruciatingly direct. “SHIELD wouldn’t make me an agent if I offered to work for free.”

 

Howard finally let himself grin then and shakes his head. “It’s a good thing you won’t be an agent. And I can promise you won’t be working for free.”

 

“What exactly are you asking me to do, Stark?”

 

If he can make it past his training, Howard has no doubts that this ruthless, diminutive young man will be one of the greats. This is one who could make it all the way to the top.

 

“I’m asking you to do what you already do, Steve. I want you to be invisible.”   


	2. risk pools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Carol find out that they're being trained as partners and are both thrilled about this. We also learn some background about the Scourge and the way they work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna give blanket warnings for mental health problems in this chapter, including a discussion of suicide and suicide prevention, a brief glance at child sex abuse, transphobia, really nice parents, really shitty parents, and lots terrible terrible self-esteem all around. 
> 
> Also I'm really excited for Cloak and Dagger, can you tell?

_"Theirs not to make reply,_

_Theirs not to reason why,_

_Theirs but to do and die._

_Into the valley of Death_

_Rode the six hundred."_

\- "The Charge of the Light Brigade", Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

Steve eyes the couple in front of him.

 

They were a young couple – early twenties. Young enough that they probably should’ve been in college. The man is dark-skinned and dressed in casual street clothes – jeans and a Celtics jersey – but the Adidas hat and Nike sneakers both look genuine, his jacket is designer, and the phone he’s scrolling around on looks like a brand-new iPhone. The blond woman at his side has a similar look – polished, clean, designer jeans and a sweater, brand-new mobile and diamond earrings Steve is willing to bet are real.

 

They look capable and smart, but there’s almost something _too_ casual about them.

 

A tall woman with blue-black hair walks in, glances at him and says to the couple in a crisp Londoners accent “We’re waiting for Danvers, then?”

 

The man nods, also briefly glancing at Steve. “I think Vanessa had concerns about her safety, but we seem to be given the all-clear. Neena said they’d bring her down with them.”

 

“Alright then,” the woman says brusquely. “I’ll bring Trish down.”

 

‘Trish’ is a short woman with fiery red hair who spends all of her time either frowning or sighing at the tablet in her hand. Steve thought she would introduce herself but instead she perches on the arm of a couch and carries on with her business.

 

They wait in silence until a pretty black woman and pale very tired looking man come in, with a blond girl around Steve's age trailing behind them. She is also pale and tired looking – kind of like Steve, actually, when he’s been ill for a while. She’s clean, too, but her clothes look kind of old and ragged. Her skin has the kind of translucency that comes from sleeping and eating only rarely, and she eyes the room so warily that Steve wonders if there are bruises hiding beneath that too-large sweater she’s wearing.

 

“Great, we’re all here,” the British brunette says. “Now we can introduce ourselves properly. I am Jessica Drew, but you’ll probably call me Arachnid from now on, as we do not use real names outside of face-to-face conversations. I am the Scourge’s third in command, which basically means that I handle the matters of personnel and target assignments. Think of me as a communications officer. Trish?”

 

“Patricia Walker,” the redhead grunts, without looking up. “Hellcat.”

 

“ _Head Spook_ ,” Jessica says pointedly, lips thin. “This is Head Spook, the commander for every member of the organization.”

 

Patricia looks up then, her brown eyes unfriendly. “I’m Hellcat, and I’m the temporary commanding officer until which time a replacement is found. If you have comments or concerns, don’t bother me. Talk to Deadpool and Domino so I can deal with my idiot boss’s demands in peace.”

 

Having apparently said her peace, Patricia takes her tablet and stalks off.

 

“Apologies,” Jessica says stiffly. “Moondragon, our former Head Spook, passed away a few months ago and Hellcat has not taken her loss well. As aforementioned however, you may talk to Deadpool and Domino if you have concerns about your role here. They are our Deputy Phantoms. Deadpool – Mister Wade Wilson. And Domino – Miss Neena Thurman. Deadpool and Domino currently handle high-security surveillance as well as financial concerns so if you’re having issues with payment, questions about your benefits packet, or you want your checks to be placed in care of another party, they are the ones to talk to. These will be your trainers, Tyrone Johnson and Tandy Bowen.”

 

Ty adds “I’m Cloak.”

 

“And I’m Dagger.” Tandy finishes. “You’ll be trained as partners, so you need a pair of partners to train you.”

 

“I was told that we work alone,” Carol says bluntly, without looking at Steve. Like him, her voice is surprisingly strong for such a frail-looking frame. She doesn’t look angry or anxious but there is an unsettled air about her.

 

“Because you are both underage and come to us under great personal difficulties, I have made the decision to partner-train the two of you with each other,” Jessica says firmly. “Carol Danvers meet Steven Rogers. You’re going to be together pretty much 24/7 for the next year. Longer, if you decide. Cloak and Dagger, please keep me updated with their progress. It was nice to meet you both.”

 

Carol grimaces but says nothing and Steve fidgets silently.

 

Tandy glances at Ty, who flicks his eyes upward, and she nods. Jessica isn’t lying, but she’s telling them the part of the truth she wants them to hear.

 

Scourge candidates tended to fall under two categories.

 

The first were people in positions of authority of some kind that were willing to go undercover in the roles of their everyday lives. These were people like Howard Stark – they had a lot to offer, but also a lot to lose, and that was what kept them safe. The fear of screwing up at this job ensured that they were appropriately cautious with their actions.

 

The second tended to have more potential but they also typically had nothing to lose. They were loners, people overlooked that society had essentially written off for one reason or another. People still close to them tended to be either their dependents, and if they were lucky enough to have a job it was close to minimum wage, a dead-end career that paid for the basics and nothing else.

 

That was the main reason that they were known for decades as the refuge of women, minorities, the queer, and the disabled. The Scourge was often their last and only option to escape whatever existence they were stuck in. The problem with this was that the job they did was emotionally very stressful and very taxing – especially if you were good at it, and this didn’t combine very well with the emotional problems already present in these individuals.

 

Senior Scourge leadership evaluated all candidates for emotional security and mental stability and they were then sorted into three other categories. ‘Danger’ – this was the candidate too unstable or aggressive for recruiting and they were placed on a watch list rather than being welcomed into the fold, ‘Clear’ – a (relatively) normal and healthy person, or ‘High Risk’. High Risk was the politer term used now.

 

The Scourge member whose careers didn’t end in retirement or dying to keep the secrets of their job, but at the end of a rope or a bottle or a gun in the mouth. In decades past, some asshole (probably the SHIELD director at the time) gave them the nickname ‘Dutch Actors’ and they were used as cheap and expendable labor.

 

In the early 80’s the Head Spook was a formidable woman codenamed Storm, and it was Storm who started taking a serious look at preventing this outcome. Storm’s predecessor, Venom, tried to reduce it by a system of selecting their missions to avoid excessively traumatizing outcomes. He noted that this was successful up to a point, but these people tended to be aggressive danger-seeking risk-takers and it was hard to avoid in many cases.

 

Storm decided to try a new approach – she paired these lonely souls together with other compatible Scourge trainees. These high-risk candidates had no thought for their own safety, for their own lives. So, she gave them someone else to care for, someone nearer to them than the upper management, who would be involved in their everyday lives and cared about what happened to them. Someone they would also have to help and care for. Some who depended on them and they were also dependent upon in return.

 

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it helped significantly. Suicide attempts – both successful and not – among these high-risk members went from 62% to 13% in just a decade. Now, having thirty years to adjust and improve this system meant that the rate usually hovered between 3-4%.

 

Copycat – Vanessa – after receiving their packets from Wade and Neena, had classified both Carol and Steve as high risk. They both had signs of clinical depression and Carol had already vaguely referenced self-harming behavior during her interview. Steve’s medical files speculated at suicidal ideation, but the boy held his cards so closely to his chest that it was hard to say if this was true or not. Jessica found it was best to err on the side of caution and had assumed ‘yes’.

 

She couldn’t think of any better trainers for them than Cloak and Dagger. They were essentially the poster-children for the success of the high-risk program.

 

Ty and Tandy were not always Cloak and Dagger. Actually, Ty was young and homeless, without any hope of clawing his way out of the poverty he was born into and Tandy was full of behavioral problems even before her mother had passed away. She was considered “unadoptable” after slipping away from her fourth foster family and ending up on the streets.

 

When they were first brought into the Scourge, Ty and Tandy fought bitterly.

 

Both of them assumed that they were paired up as a punishment for something, and Ty didn’t want to have to put up with a whiny rich white girl who had about the same street smarts as a goose. Meanwhile, the constantly ill-at-ease Tandy lashed out at everything and everyone, frightened but refusing to back down from any fight. Eventually, she punched him in the face, gave a mortified apology, and tried to quit the program.  Ty refused to let her, and he and Tandy grew to be first best friends, and then a couple.

 

Looking at Carol and Steve in front of them, Ty and Tandy were reminded rather painfully of their younger selves. Carol was now homeless, all but abandoned by her family to live on the streets. Steve, having recently lost his mother, has basically lost the only person who ever loved him.

 

Ty is rather excited to get started. With the recent problems in the organization they’d had a hard six months. Partially this was because of Stoner mismanaging their resources after Moondragon died, and it was partly due to Moondragon’s own favoritism.

 

Because they were trained by Archangel, whom she was not fond of, Cloak and Dagger were definitely not on that list of favorites. It also meant that people like Hellcat, who was good in the field, had been promoted far above her ability to manage people or time.

 

She’d also tried to quietly dislodge Deadpool, but long-standing rules among the Scourge didn’t allow the Head Spook to remove someone from a management position if they held it before the Head’s promotion, even when Deadpool’s rapidly progressing illness resulted in the need for Domino to take over a great deal of the leg work. This was not a problem for many Head Spooks – in most cases if the previous Head died or retired, the person promoted in their place was the Deputy Phantom, who in turn promoted the third in command to deputy, and then picked the new third in command themselves. But Deadpool declined a promotion due to his terminal diagnosis, and everyone knew that the moment he died, Domino would retire to take care of his daughter.

 

Ty was certain as soon as Arachnid took over (and she would take over, Hellcat was out the moment Arachnid’s clearance came through) things would be back on track. He was confident that he and Tandy would be able to help Steve and Carol.

 

Tandy was feeling a lot less confident about this.

 

She knew just from looking at her that Carol didn’t trust Steve. To his credit, Steve actually seemed aware of this. Whether this awareness was innate or conscious was harder to say – Tandy was willing to bet on conscious. Taskmaster – Howard – warned them that Steve was already highly perceptive, both socially and situationally. Deadpool suggested this was probably part of his social anxiety issues, constantly noticing and analyzing the behaviors of the people around him, especially with regard to their opinions and feelings toward Steve himself.

 

Howard seemed to think this was a marvelous talent, which made Tandy’s eyes want to roll right out of her head. Steve lives in a perpetual state of high anxiety, worried that people were judging him and finding him lacking, always watching and waiting for the moment they will reject him (an inevitable outcome in Steve’s mind). Only Howard effing Stark could make that sound like a useful skill rather than a horrifying existence driven by an endless circle of shame, fear, and self-hatred. He also has a high suspicion trigger and his fight or flight is geared strongly towards fight.

 

Tandy was even less sure about Carol. Steve’s anger she could handle. She might even try Archangel’s trick with Tandy and drag him to a boxing ring to let him punch and kick at her until he was too exhausted to get up. But helping Carol would be a lot trickier than letting her beat the shit out of something. And that was really what this was about, helping her.

 

The Scourge was more than an organization for the spies of spies, it was a kind of make-do family. For Ty and Tandy, Archangel had been the only father figure either of them had known. Happily, he was retired rather than deceased, but until they both retired they had to avoid physical contact with him for the safety of all three of them.

 

Ty and Tandy would have to convince Carol, even with her background, that not only was she safe with them, but that Steve was also trustworthy and could be depended upon.

 

Carol’s father had custody of her from early childhood until his sudden death two years ago. Carol’s father had listened very intently when she said she didn’t want to be called Kyle anymore, when she told him that she still liked blue but would rather wear a pretty dress instead of her stiff jeans. Michael Danvers had pulled his child into his lap and opened a big book of baby names. “May I pick your new name?” he asked gravely. “If you hate it we can pick something else.”

 

And the young not-Kyle had nodded. Mommies and daddies picked out your name. It felt too weird for her to pick her own name. Michael kissed her forehead, looking into her wide eyes. Boy or girl, his child had the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “How about Carol? Do you wanna be Carol?”

 

Carol had brightened immediately. “Yes!”

 

So, Michael called her Carol, and started introducing her as his daughter, called her “she” when the principal at her school got mad at him, and said that Carol’s room was “her” room. He bought Carol dresses, let her grow out her thin blond hair, played tea parties with her, and every night before she went to bed, Michael said “Goodnight, Princess Carol!”

 

And Carol would say “Sleep tight, King Daddy!”

 

Michael took her to a doctor and discussed things like ‘dis-fur-ia’, whatever that was – it wasn’t good, apparently, because he told the doctor that he didn’t want it to happen to Carol.

 

What Carol did not know at the time was that Michael was doing all of this over her mother Lisa’s very vocal and loud protests. Michael was keeping her mother away from her because Lisa sometimes said mean things to her, and she kept calling her ‘Kyle’ even though Daddy promised Carol that was definitely not going to be her name anymore.

 

Of course, by the time Michael died, Carol was almost fifteen and all of this made a whole lot more sense to her, and that’s why she knew she didn’t want to go home with her mother. But the judge didn’t see it that way when her father died. A different judge decided that Lisa had been ‘deprived’ of contact with her son, who was confused and clearly did not know what he wanted, never mind that Carol had been insisting that she was a girl since she was six.

 

Lisa had a new husband called Jake and they both called her Kyle until they realized that Carol wouldn’t answer to that. She cut the legs off her pants to make some very cute shorts and tied up her t-shirts into crop tops. Shaved her legs and wore make-up. The normal things she always did, except now Michael wasn’t there at the end of the day to say “Goodnight, Princess Carol!”

 

Lisa…called her names. And other names. Jake, eyeing Carol as she walked around the house, told Lisa if the boy was going act like a sissy, he would treat him like one. Jake would start touching her, kissing her, and it was awful.

 

It was bad enough that her mother refused to accept the person that she was, but Lisa knew what was happening to Carol and while she didn’t encourage Jake, she was happy to pretend she couldn’t see it, though there was no way she couldn’t have heard Carol screaming at Jake to leave her alone. There was a special, horrible place in her mind for that feeling of angry betrayal.

 

Tandy didn’t know how they were going to make this work. Carol has lost her faith in her caretakers and somehow, she and Ty would need to prove to her that they would not mistreat her, nor would they stand back and allow someone _else_ to mistreat her.

 

Ty nudged her. _One step at a time._

\---

“No offense, but this is all a little Ku Klux Klan,” Steve observes, eyeing the masked and uniformed members of the Scourge who begin filing in around them. “What’s with the masks?”

 

Ty cracks a smile. “It is a-a bit, yeah,” he agrees. “But d-don’t worry, they’re just second-years who want to watch you be-being trained. The masks are for your s-safety. You only have to use them when not being noticed isn’t possible. You aren’t much good to us if you g-g-get recognized.”  

 

Carol snorts. “When do we get a silly nickname?”

 

“You don’t,” Tandy says coolly. “Codenames are only for people who pass the graduation test. If you graduate, your trainer – in your case me and Ty – will assign your codenames. I suggest you impress us-”

 

“Because they’re permanent,” Ty finishes with a grim smile. “You can’t use re-real names if you’re not face-to-face, so unless you become one of the m-managers, most people will only know you by y-y-your codename.”

 

Tandy claps her hands, making both blond children look at her sharply. “Let’s get started. First, we’re going to go over the basic rules. Rule one, never be identified.”

 

“Rule two, never be identified.”

 

“Rule three-”

 

“Let me guess,” Steve says snarkily. “Never be identified.”

 

“Keep that up, Rogers, and your codename is gonna be Shithead,” Tandy says mildly. At Steve’s challenging look, Ty adds “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t a p-pain in the ass, but you have to pick your moments, you feel me?”

 

Quietly, Carol says “Shouldn’t the first rule be like…the fight club rule?”

 

“No,” Ty says softly. “Because that contract you signed when you agreed to start this program is an NDA.”

 

“Because we’re not lawyers, allow me to summarize,” Tandy says briskly. “That NDA basically says that if you ever tell anyone about what you’ve done or seen as a part of the Scourge, even if it was part of your candidacy interview, you will earn life in prison and owe several billion dollars – and SHIELD and all its affiliates are authorized to use lethal force in bringing you in. I promise you, if you tell anyone about this, we will kill you. We won’t enjoy doing it, but secrecy is how we protect you and how we protect ourselves.”

 

“Basically, we’re screwed,” Steve observes.

 

“Aw, don’t think of it that way,” Ty says cheerfully. “Think of it as-as being super…committed. We aren’t agents and most of us aren’t suited to-to…physical confrontations. So, we have to use concealment and stealth to find what we want and if we’re forced to fight, we t-try to use as much of the element of surprise as we possibly c-can.”

 

“Why are you both here?” Carol asks, and they both encouraged to see a little of the same challenge in her voice. “You can both fight, can’t you? You could be in SHIELD now.”

 

“You’re right, we could. I don’t brag when I say Cloak and Dagger are some of the heavy hitters in the Scourge,” Tandy agrees. “But when we first joined the program we were both too young and we never would have gotten the resources together to qualify. Joining SHIELD means either having a good military record, good university scores, or both and Ty and I wouldn’t have either.”

 

“And n-now we have a child,” Ty says quietly. “We’re both in college, and we have-have a daughter. As dangerous as this job can be sometimes, it has a much high-higher rate of survival than SHIELD. I-I’m not gonna let her grow up to be an orphan…like me. But I won’t lie. Either of you could die. Any other questions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was so fucking dark I'm sorry. But Steve's story has a lot of shadows in it and many of the things hiding in them aren't pretty. What did you think of Cloak and Dagger? How do you feel about Carol's early backstory and being paired up with Steve?


	3. the waters and the wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come away, O human child  
> to the waters and the wild  
> with a faerie, hand in hand..."

_“Away with us he’s going,_  
the solemn-eyed:  
He’ll hear no more the lowing  
Of the calves on the warm hillside  
Or the kettle on the hob  
Sing peace into his breast,  
Or see the brown mice bob  
Round and round the oatmeal chest.  
For he comes, the human child  
To the waters and the wild  
With a faerie, hand in hand,  
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.”

              -“The Stolen Child”, William Butler Yeats

They need a permanent residence – the organization can fudge a lot of paperwork, but they prefer things to be as above board as humanly possible before changing records and screwing around with bureaucracy. As their trainers, their permanent residence will be with Tyrone and Tandy.

 

Partially, this was because they were both minors, but also because Elixir, the Ghost Rescue on duty, had advised that Steve be put in a household where meals were put in front of him on a regular basis. Josh didn’t believe that Steve starved himself on purpose, but he warned that occasionally he was observed simply losing himself in thought or in drawing and forgot that his body needed care. Josh wants to prevent him from developing some kind of eating disorder before he carries it over into adulthood.

 

Josh also thought it would be best for Carol to live with them so that she could see the relationship between a married couple – with a female figure who wouldn’t hold it upon herself to constantly criticize either her gender orientation or emotionally abuse her and a male figure who wouldn’t assault her or make inappropriate comments about her presentation and general appearance. It was a chance for her to gain back her faith in her caretakers and be shown both a healthy marital relationship as well as a healthy parent-child relationship.

 

Their new house-guests were eerily quiet, a pair of wraiths that wandered around without really engaging with them or each other. 

 

Eating was not Steve's only issue. It was also hard for him to sleep at all these days. Apparently, it was hard for Ty and Tandy, too. Their daughter was a beautiful clear-eyed baby of six months old named Billie, after Tyrone’s late brother. She was not a good sleeper and one of them often got up to sing to her or to feed her, sometimes watching the news on mute until she could be coaxed back to sleep.

 

He could always tell which of them it was, even when he was half asleep. Tyrone’s voice was almost professionally good and he knew all the childhood classics. Mary Had a Little Lamb, Hush-a-Bye Baby, Rock-a-Bye, and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

 

Tandy didn’t.

 

Tandy didn’t seem to know any music for children, so she sang the only nice and slow song she knew. “ _Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight. Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams._ ”

 

Steve was almost glad that he wasn’t the only insomniac in the house.

 

Often, he startles awake in the middle of the night and for several long moments, he will forget that Sarah is dead and panic, wondering where she is. Wondering why he isn’t with her.

 

Then he hears Tandy voice, cooing to Billie and filling up the silence. “ _Sometimes, I live in the country. Sometimes, I live in the town. Sometimes, I have a great notion to jump in the river and drown…”_

 

He's lonely, but at least he isn't alone.

\---

“In case you weren’t sure, this is a test,” Tandy says helpfully, lightly bouncing on her toes a little as she wanders around a New Jersey mall. She speaks to the two of them through her phone, holding it casually against her ear with her shoulder as she pretends to browse through racks of jeans in a department store.

 

This is honestly her favorite part of training a newbie – she can watch Steve and Carol in action, see how well they studied their basic lessons, and determine how likely it is that one of them has to be kicked out.

 

Some trainers will straight up tell pre-graduates the stats for the graduating class, some will exaggerate greatly how hard it is – her and Ty don’t bring it up. Firstly, because the stats are kind of misleading. In any given year there is usually about ten to twenty students assigned to senior Scourge members. Of those, typically eighty percent graduate – usually between eight and sixteen people.

 

The thing is, most assume that not graduating just means that you don’t get to join the club. But people who get that far and don’t make it all the way are denied access for a reason. Officially, the administration know these people as the “Urgent Watchlist” but more experienced members often called it “the ride list”, because, to quote Deadpool “The only way out of here involves a ride with the Head Spook and they’re gonna hand you a ticket.”

 

It was a mean way to put it, but it was reserved for the cruelest and most insidious among the rejects. People who were not really a danger to themselves like people in the high-risk pool but _were_ undeniably a danger to others. These people tried to play psychological games with their trainers, abused or attacked their training partners, harmed animals for sport. They found causing pain a thrill and usually had a history of manipulating or tormenting someone close to them. A younger cousin or sibling, sometimes their own children in the worst cases.

 

In short, people on the ride list were everything the Scourge tried to protect the world from. Their ‘ticket to ride’ was often in the form of a bullet to the brain from the Head Spook.

 

It was early days yet, but Tandy was pretty sure Steve and Carol were part of the eighty percent rather than that twenty. Vanessa had both of them tagged as isolated, socially-starved altruists with not-so-latent anxiety disorders. She and Ty both quietly agreed that the mandatory therapy assigned to Steve and Carol wasn’t really working well for them, and perhaps was time to try a different approach – gradual bonding.

 

She was hoping this would work or they would have to switch to forced bonding the way Archangel did with her and Ty. “There are three Scourge in this building, not including me, of course. Find one and you will pass the test.”

 

Rather boldly, Steve says “What if we find all three?”

 

Carol glances at him nervously, waiting for Tandy’s reply.

 

Amused, Tandy says “You’ll have found all three. Don’t get ahead of yourself, rookie.”

 

“Aren’t, uh, isn’t the point for a Scourge _not_ to be caught?” Carol asks, confused.

 

“They’ll leave subtle clues. This is not really about finding someone who is in hiding, it’s about observation. Use the techniques we’ve been teaching you to pick out the tiny details they’ll be giving away.” Tandy pauses, before giving an internal shrug and deciding that playing upon Steve’s ambition and desire to be seen as competent couldn’t hurt too much. “If you really do want to find all three of them, then you’ll need to work together. The mall is too big for one person to search the whole building by themselves – ”

 

She cut herself off before she could encourage them to play off of one another. Reminding Carol that she would have to speak to and interact with Steve more regularly wasn’t a good idea. If she got herself all worked up about it beforehand she wouldn’t have the guts to talk at all.

 

Carol was actually not that shy – she could be very good with people, in fact. But Steve has already shown himself to be ambitious, aggressive, and rather unforgiving to people who did not meet his measure of esteem. His heart seems to be in the right place but Carol’s wariness of his position as someone required to be close to her combined with Steve’s forceful personality meant that he dominated his partner without the slightest awareness of doing so.

 

“Shall we split up?” Steve asks lightly, already turning the other direction.

 

It isn’t that Steve dislikes Carol – she is quietly clever and in weapons practice, she manages a gracefulness that he usually finds himself envious of. But he is under the impression that _she_ dislikes  _him_. Carol is practically nonverbal whenever he is around, and never quite manages to look Steve in the eye, even when she does actually speak to him.

 

“There’s a girl in Barnes and Noble who seems very intent on writing absolutely nothing in her notebook,” Steve says dryly, after over an hour of searching. “I’m pretty sure that’s number one.”

 

“Are you sure about that?” Tandy says archly. “I’m only going to accept an answer if both of you agree to submit it.”

 

“I’m certain,” Steve says with confidence.

 

“Carol?”

 

“Uh, yeah-yeah, sure,” Carol mumbles and Tandy scowls in a way that they would find terrifying if either of them could see her.

 

“Very well,” Tandy concedes, her lips thinning with displeasure. “Final answer?”

 

“Yes,” both students chime.

 

“You are correct. You have found Wallflower. Would you like to try for the other two members?”

 

“Yes,” Steve says immediately.

 

“Carol?” Tandy asks, a bit testy at Steve’s continuous habit of making decisions without even asking Carol’s opinion.

 

“Could be fun,” Carol says absently, her attention noticeably absent from the conversation.

 

Carol is certain of it now – there is a boy wearing a backpack who keeps doing the same lap of the lower level. She leans over the railing, squinting a him a little. He could be exercising, but he’s in casual clothes and his bag looks suspiciously empty. “Dagger, I’ve got number two. Male, eighteen to twenty-two, dark hair, about five-ten to six-one, possibly Hispanic descent, wearing a backpack on the first level.”

 

“Final answer?” Tandy says, massaging her brows. At least now she knows that Carol is not thoroughly subservient to Steve, but they also have zero teamwork skills between them.

 

“Yes,” they both repeat.

 

She wishes that their willingness to trust each other’s judgment was a sign of trust rather than a studied avoidance of contact and conflict. Too bad it seems to be working out for them. “Correct. You have found Hellion. One more to go.” Switching off the line for a moment she sends a text to Cessily: _Plan B. Tell Julian not to get punched in the face._

 

She receives a reply almost instantly: _Plan B go. Why? I’d love to see that!_

 

Tandy sighs. Why does she have the feeling this will end in terrible bloodshed?

 

It takes them nearly six hours of searching and they do start talking and observing out loud to each other a little more, but they finally do find Mercury.

 

They also nearly jump out of their skin when behind them, Hellion and Wallflower appear from almost out of nowhere. “Yo,” Hellion says, cackling when the two of them jump half a foot off the ground. “You’re Cloak and Dagger’s brats, aren’t you? Been here a few weeks?”

 

“Yes,” Carol says politely, while Steve is silent for once, surveying Hellion with thinly-disguised weariness. Almost glaring, actually. “We’ve had a few weeks training.”

 

Mercury, a redhead with eerie silvery eyes befitting her nickname, throws her head back and laughs. “They’ll still be changing your diapers, then. Haven’t even got an assigned name yet. I’m Mercury. The pretty blonde is Wallflower, and this enormous jerk is Hellion.”

 

“Julian,” he says, grinning. “Cloak and Dagger have been bragging about you little shits – Jesus, the two of you look like fucking twins. Danvers, right? Do you prefer Carol or Kyle?”

 

Every liter of blood in Carol’s veins turns cold. It freezes solid when beside her, Steve snarls. “ _What. The. Fuck_?” If Carol’s veins have turned to ice, then Steve’s blood is boiling. He demands “What kind of goddamn question is that?!”

 

Feigning innocence, Hellion lifts his hands in surrender. “Woah, I was only wondering. Some people are like…nongender identifying, you know.”

 

Carol stares at Steve in surprise as he bares his teeth at Hellion. “Then you could’ve asked her in private or waited for her to give her own name – not that it’s your business. You were trying to humiliate her on purpose or you’re as dense as hardwood.” He eyes Hellion critically. “Maybe _both_. Either way, you can kindly _fuck right off_!”

 

Snorting inappropriately, Carol covers her mouth with both hands, eyes watering with laughter as she shakes silently. They all stare at her likes she’s lost her head, and maybe she has. Ever since Michael Danvers died, Carol hasn’t had a person in this world not only understand her life choices but fight to defend them. “S-sorry,” she tries to say through her untimely giggling. “It-it’s not really f-funny, I swear!”

 

It doesn’t occur to Carol until later, quietly eating their dinner together, as silent as they always are – but maybe not quite as distant as usual.

 

“You didn’t seem that surprised,” she says, staring into her green beans.

 

“Hm,” Steve murmurs, lost in thoughts of Sarah. “Oh. No, I wasn’t.”

 

Carol jerks her head up and stares at him. “But-but you’ve never said!”

 

“I don’t typically ask women about what’s under their skirts, no,” Steve says dryly.

 

A curious little smile quirks at the corner of Carol’s mouth. Steve will grow to learn that that particular smile always heralds danger in the water. “The implication there is that you do ask men what they’re wearing.”

 

Carol is strangely pleased and triumphant at the gleam of mischief and amusement that appears in Steve’s eyes. They grin at each other across the table and Tyrone, trying to convince Billie that this is dinnertime, smiles silently against the warmth of his daughter’s head. “The benefit of being bi is that I don’t really care either way.”

 

She blinks. “You are?” He hears a hint of envious disbelief in her voice. “How-how do you know so soon?”

 

He shrugs. “How did you know you’re a girl? You know when you know. It’s not like…baking a pie, or something. You’re not on a friggin’ timer.”

 

Carol again has to smother inappropriate laughter. “Don’t force me into an American Pie joke. Don’t do it.”

 

Tyrone nods and rocks Billie and kisses her curly head. He can tell Tandy to stop her worrying now. He’s pretty sure this odd couple are gonna be just fine.

\---

Steve stares into the dark, listening to the comfort of ancient floorboards creaking beneath feet, and Ty's voice echoing in the empty hallways. “ _Stop your rambling. Stop your gambling. Stop your going out late, every night. Go home to your wife, and your family. Stay by the fireside bright_ …”

 

As Ty goes from Steve’s doorway to Carol, he has a sudden and rather marvelous revelation as Tandy’s voice joins the chorus. “ _Irene, goodnight. Irene, goodnight_ …”

 

They aren’t singing it just for Billie.

 

And Steve rolls over and pulls the blankets over his head, breathes the smell of fabric softener clinging to his pillow until the wetness clinging to the inside of his lashes dissipates. He does not cry, but he breathes slow and deep and steady.

 

It’s a kindness that hurts, but Steve can’t pretend he isn’t grateful for it.

 

Steve doesn’t feel like the same person he was before his mother died. He feels cold, and a bit heavy, like a stone sits in his chest where his heart used to be. The life he had with Sarah Rogers is one he can never get back. But he thinks there may be a life worthwhile waiting for him in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for Cloak and Dagger.  
> I live for bad girl/jerk with a heart of gold Tandy and adorable prep school virgin jock Tyrone.  
> I just thought y'all should know that. Possibly content for them in a oneshot coming later on.


	4. riptides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for descriptions of vomiting (and general bodily illness), violence, death, blood, and gore. The fun stuff!

_“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!_

_The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!_

_Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun_

_The frumious Bandersnatch!”_

_-“Jabberwocky”, Lewis Carroll_

 

January 2006

It takes seven weeks for Steve to become ill while living with the Johnsons. He’s honestly surprised that it takes that long – it’s the middle of winter, just after New Year’s, in fact. But Tyrone and Tandy both lived in squalor at various times in their lives and they are adamant about keeping up with the cleanliness of the house and Steve had been drilled early into washing his hands constantly and sanitizing his electronics and most-used items.

 

But he still has to go to school with thousands of other children who are not so careful, and now he lives with an infant with puts everything in her mouth. Steve doesn’t spend a _lot_ of time with Billie, but he does play games with her or hold her when Ty or Tandy are trying to make her a bottle.

 

It’s the vomiting that hits first. Well, no, it’s actually the fatigue. But honestly, Steve often feels tired, especially these days. Tiredness is one of the main systems of depression that plague him basically on a daily basis, so there’s nothing new about that. So, he doesn’t notice his own illness until the vomiting.

 

He can’t sit still at the dinner table, legs twitching as he tries to control the sudden wave of nausea that overwhelms him. He hates throwing up – it makes his eyes water and once he starts, it’s nearly impossible to stop until there’s nothing else in his stomach. Steve shivers in his chair, feeling a cold chill make gooseflesh rise on his upper body.

 

Ty can see that he is unwell but does not say anything about his condition – notes from Josh in Steve’s file warned that Steve’s weak immune system would frequently fail him, especially from winter into early spring. He’s also said that asking after his health would not go well and that they should give him space until Steve asked for help himself or they were sincerely worried that he was neglecting his own wellbeing.

 

He goes along with this advice until he puts Billie to bed for the second time and hears someone throwing up in the guest bathroom. Violently. Tyrone cringes in sympathy but has to lay Billie down before he can go in to help Steve.

 

Though Steve has flushed the toilet, he is still vomiting, painful sounding retches that don’t bring up anything but acid. When even that has been emptied, Steve dry-heaves for a few moments, eyes watering as he shivers against the cold porcelain.

 

When Tyrone pushes his straw-colored bangs away from his flushed and sweaty face, Steve is hot to the touch, but shaking as though he stands in the bitter cold and his eyes seem to have trouble focusing on Ty.

 

A cold washcloth over his face makes Steve shiver harder, so the glass of water Ty gives him is tepid rather than cold. Steve doesn’t protest being taken care of and Ty considers this a great success. Until he picks him up in a fireman’s lift and tries to put Steve back in bed.

 

“I can do it! I’ll walk m’self!” Steve slurs, squeezing his eyes shut against the movement of being lifted and carried. The room is spinning, and he doesn’t like it.

 

“I ain’t doing this for you,” Ty says mildly. “I’m doing it for me – if I let you shamble around here by yourself, Tandy would rip my head off and then complain about it afterwards.”

 

“Kay,” Steve says weakly, still focused on not dry heaving again.

 

Tandy and Ty went through a kind of hell trying to get Steve through that first illness with them, the first serious illness he’d had since his mother had passed. His feverish hallucinations messed with his mind.

 

“ _Chaille mé tú, Mam_ ,” Steve whispers to the blond figure bent over his bed. _I missed you, Mom._

 

Tandy lays a cool cloth over his forehead. She doesn’t need to speak Gaelic to understand who he thinks he’s talking to. “Steve, lovey, your mom isn’t here,” she whispers, impatiently wiping away several stray tears as she sweeps his damp bangs away from his face, patting the hot skin with the cool towel. “I’m Tandy. You’re with Ty and Tandy, Steve.”

 

 _“Gabh domsa leat,”_ Steve murmurs, still staring at her with eerily glazed eyes. _Take me with you._

 

He reaches out for her and Tandy doesn’t hesitate to take his hand. It isn’t the glazed stare or the tragic rambling that scares her – it’s his hot, dry palms, devoid of any moisture. How pale and translucent his skin is beneath the fevered flush.

 

Tandy stays up with him the whole night, mostly because she can’t help herself. She is a new mother and she hates to imagine Billie in the not-so-distant future being left by herself in this kind of state without Tandy to care for her. By the time morning comes, she looks nearly as ill as Steve is. Her face has lost all color and dark circles have appeared beneath her eyes. She looks frightened in a way that Tandy rarely allows herself to.

 

The chapping on his lips now extended onto his cheeks as well. Tandy has spent nearly an hour trying to get him to drink as much liquid as possible, but it doesn’t seem to have helped and she’s also had to prevent him from leaving the bed multiple times. Whatever hallucinations the fever has given him, Steve seems to feel that there is something urgent he must do away from his bed, murmuring in Gaelic so that she doesn’t understand what he needs so badly he won’t stay still.

 

Just after breakfast, Ty manages to convince Tandy to switch places so that she can lay down and get some rest. Unfortunately – or fortunately – Ty decides that Steve must get better in the next twelve hours or he will have to call an ambulance. Steve is no longer attempting to leave the bed, but he suspects this is because he hasn’t got the strength to force himself up anymore and he has stopped sweating hours ago because he no longer has the capacity to do so.

 

In early afternoon Tandy wakes up from her nap to find Carol standing anxiously in the doorway. “Uh – Ty says he’s ready to switch with you.”

 

As Tandy drags herself back to Steve’s room, Carol returns to the foyer, where Ty is waiting with a stroller and a little red wagon. “Put your coat on and grab the wagon,” he says curtly.

 

Carol silently follows the brusque order without bothering to ask where they are going. Her unasked question is answered anyway when she finds herself standing in front of the ice cube dispenser at the nearest bodega as Ty loads the wagon with as many bags of ice as the little cart will hold, finally throwing two more bags over one shoulder and throwing money on the counter on their way out.

 

She helps Billie out of her infant snowsuit, watching Tyrone rip open bag after bag of the cubes and carry them into the bathroom where Carol hears small glass-like objects being poured into the tub. All of his movements are impatient – short and jerky – and Carol would assume he was angry if she didn’t see the flash of desperation caught in his face. She swallows and reflexively holds Billie a little tighter, who whines at her in displeasure.

 

What will happen to Steve if he doesn’t get better?

 

She can’t really say that they’re close, but they’re something like cautious friends. Carol just started to feel like she has a place in this life and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if Steve…

 

If Steve…

 

She honestly can’t let herself think that. She can’t let herself wonder if another person sitting across from her at the breakfast table just…won’t be there one day.

 

Having emptied every bag and filled the tub most of the way, Ty fills the rest of the tub with room-temperature water and darts back to Steve’s room, ignoring Tandy’s exclamation of surprise as he picks up the pale, frail body and exits the room. Carrying him to the bathroom, Ty stands, frowning, over the tub of ice water and drops him in fully clothed.

 

His fever broke an hour later.

 

That night, Steve is shaky and weak as a newborn pup, but he is conscious and mostly coherent. “You didn’t have to worry,” he says hoarsely to Tandy. “It happens all the time – it always looks worse than it is.”

 

Tyrone watches Carol from the doorway. Billie is asleep on her shoulder and she hasn’t said much for the past forty hours. “Hey,” he says quietly, and is satisfied when her eyes shift immediately to him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

 

“Notice what?”

 

“You did a good job, Danvers. Kept your head during the whole crisis.”

 

She shrugs. “I walked to the store with you and kept an extra eye on Billie.”

 

“Yes, but getting hysterical would’ve meant extra time Tandy or I would need to spend calming you down or dealing with Billie. Extra minutes that meant Steve might not have gotten better.”

 

Gently, he takes his daughter from Carol and looks at her seriously and she swallows, his dark eyes seeming to pierce through her. As though Ty can see every fear and insecurity, written on her skin. “Second – I’ll give you one of the best pieces of advice Archangel ever gave me: when given a compliment by a commander, don’t deflect or argue. Accept it graciously and move on, but never brag. You don’t need to sell yourself to make sure others know what you’re worth, but don’t shortchange yourself.”

\---

It was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be a test run. But Steve was ambitious and confident, and he never minded taking risks. Carol feels – no, she is _certain_ – that if she had been there with him, he wouldn’t have made such a great overestimation of his ability to handle the situation.

 

Steve was always more careful when someone _else’s_ safety was at risk.

 

Tandy has spent the better part of an hour screaming at him from inside the Rescue Ward. Josh has spent most of that trying to get her to calm down. “Dagger, my patient needs me, and you are in my way.”

 

“It’s some bruises and a bloody nose – he’ll be just fine!” Tandy barks.

 

“Yes, and he’s frightened and traumatized and you are not helping either of those things right now,” Josh answers, with a patience that would be surprising for anyone who had never seen him at work.

 

“THAT LITTLE SHIT DELIBERATELY DISOBEYED ME!” Tandy roars, and even Josh cowers back. “Explain to me – explain in small words,” she growls. “Why I shouldn’t throw your skinny ass out of this program _right now_.”  

 

Steve swallows, staring up at her with large eyes. Gone was his usual confidence at the sight of Tandy’s face-melting rage. Then he swallows again and begins to speak.

\---

The assignment was originally on shadowing an agent suspected of using their position with a regular post to South America to sell and supply narcotics to North America and even as far as Asia. It was supposed to be a lesson on blending into the life of your target and becoming part of the background of their day to day life. Steve hadn’t realized what was going on when the agent in question began flirting with Carol, asking about Steve’s ‘pretty sister’.

 

When Carol began getting woozy, he had suspicions, but he didn’t realize what was really happening until a man grabbed him from behind as Carol started to lose consciousness.

 

The agent wasn't trafficking drugs. He was trafficking _people_.

 

He struggles, of course, and gets a bloody nose and a black eye for his trouble.

 

Tandy taught Steve how to handle a knife, how to feel its balance in his hand and how to throw it perfectly, but Tyrone had taught him what to do with one. How to wear it so that it wouldn’t show underneath his clothes, in a sheath at his belt that tucked into his lower back, how to draw it from the belt-sheath quickly and without accidentally slitting his wrists on the way. He’d realized in the moment as the targeted agent began dragging Carol towards the back of a red truck parked nearby that if he didn’t do something now, he and Carol might never make it back to the Johnsons’ apartment in the Bronx.

 

Steve was sixteen, green and spooked. He meant to cut the arm of the man holding him, but the movement makes him attempt to jerk out of the way and Steve had been training to kill (Tandy: “ _Put your weight into it, Steve, it’s harder than it looks to make a knife pierce the skin_ ”). The blade slides into his guts and the man falls to his knees, gasping in horrified pain, blood welling up between his fingers as he scrambles to cover the wound.

 

Steve flinches as the targeted agent reacts, lurching and letting Carol fall to the ground. It’s interesting because part of him panics and part of him stays calm. Panicking to find himself in this situation and remaining calm because he knows what he must do. The agent has a moment of surprise as Steve lunges forward to meet him and shoves the knife through the man’s eye socket, at the same time pushing his hand over the agent’s mouth to muffle his sudden scream.

 

Covered in blood, Steve twists the knife as the agent’s body goes limp in death. Grimacing and keeping his eyes away from the sight of the man’s ruined face, Steve must plant his foot in the corpse’s chest and pull the handle with all his might to remove his knife from its skull.

 

Carol regains consciousness twenty minutes later and suppresses a shriek to find Steve sitting across from her, his clothes covered in blood. Somewhere to the side, the man with the stab wound in his gut sobs in pain and scratches through the dirt in an effort to get up and save himself.

 

Steve stands to spare him from the terrible death of a gut wound, breathing slowly and calmly as he grabs the man by the hair and slits his throat with a long, smooth motion he will become disturbingly familiar with. Then the sound stops and Steve returns, crouching in front of her, quietly asking her “How are you feeling?”

 

“Fuzzy,” she mutters, scowling at the incompetence of being drugged on their first assignment out in the field. “Did you just kill two people?”

 

Steve nods and flips his bangs away from his face, smearing blood over his cheek. He helps her stand. “Let’s call Cloak and Dagger.”

\---

Ty peers intently at the bruises covering Steve’s face. “She’s not actually mad at you, I hope you know that.”

 

“Coulda fooled me,” Steve mutters, picked at the hospital blanket.

 

Ty resists the urge to smile. Sometimes, these angry white kids remind him of Tandy – in the best and worst ways. He sits on the edge of Steve’s bed and gently turns his chin toward Ty. “We aren’t your parents and we’d never pretend to be,” he says slowly. “But you have to understand that we _are_ parents and we’re responsible for both of you. Tandy would never forgive herself if something happened to either of you, and neither would I.”

 

Steve frowns. “I’m responsible for my actions. I did what I had to do.”

 

Softly, Ty says “I know. And that’s why you’re going to be a leader someday, Steve. But today you did something you can’t undo – even if you don’t regret doing it – and that’s an innocence you can’t ever recapture. We would have both preferred you to avoid that experience for as long as possible.”

 

Twelve weeks later, Cloak and Dagger met them back in the training facility for the last time. “I have to admit, we didn’t actually pick this,” Tandy says sheepishly. “Your nicknames are more a result of office gossip.”

 

“The Marvel Twins,” Ty nods, pointing to Steve and then Carol. “Captain, and Ms. Marvel.”

 

“Captain?” Steve asks.

 

“You do give the orders,” Carol says, mouth tilting upwards in a smile and Cloak and Dagger have to smother their laughter.

 

“Right now, you are currently the Marvel Twins,” Ty explains. “But you will probably have to break up as individuals when you’re done with high school.”

 

“Where will we go now?” Carol asks boldly, hardly a shadow of that frightened quiet child left in her.

 

“Where?” Tandy says, puzzled. “You aren’t going anywhere! You need to finish high school and then you can decide what you’d like to do.”

 

“We’re your legal guardians,” Ty says quietly. “Your home is with us for as long as you need it, whenever you need it.”

 

“Babysitting mandatory,” Tandy adds with a laugh.

 

“Alright, Ms. Marvel?”

 

“Aye aye, Captain!”

 


	5. in bloom (heliotrope)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with "all these", "sorrows" isn't necessarily told in a linear fashion. This and a couple of upcoming chapters will deal with the wild and weird sex-plorations of the Marvel twins, which is partially why this fic is rated 'M'. (also just a reminder that there is some difficult stuff related to body image, dysphoria, and self-esteem in this story)
> 
> "Heliotrope" symbolizes faithfulness and devotion. It's usually white or varying shades of purple with fragrant blooms sometimes used in perfumery. It's sometimes known as 'garden heliotrope' or 'cherry pie'... ;)

 

_"Then be not coy, but use your time,_

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry."

-"To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" by Robert Herrick

June 18th, 2007

If Tyrone taught them all about stealth – by-passing people who were in the way of what they were looking for, distracting bystanders from what they were doing, getting into things they weren’t supposed to, and stealing anything they needed from keys to intel – Tandy taught them about weapons.

 

But the thing is, you didn’t need to have a gun in your hand or a knife in your boot to be armed. One of the most important things Tandy could teach them was how to use _themselves_ as weapons.

 

“My advice if you intend to delve into using seduction as your main technique – never forget that you are the bait, but you are also the hook. If your target is low-threat, you should blend into the scenery of their everyday life and when they’re arrested, they’ll never know how they were caught. If you end up with a high-threat target, by the time they understand what you are, it will be too late.”

 

“Posing as a romantic or sexual interest is a reliable way to catch them, but the danger to your safety is much higher,” Tyrone agrees. “And a lot of people spend so much time perfecting that technique of reeling them in that they neglect skills more important to their own safety and survival. Others become overconfident in their allure and charm and don’t realize how much danger they’re really in.”

 

Carol didn’t envy Steve for a whole hell of a lot – both of them had lost their parents in one way or another. Carol had the whole mind-body gender mix-up going on, but she’s witnessed Steve’s own body fail him roughly once every six weeks for nearly two years. In his bedroom is a black lacquer box filled with medications Steve needs just to stay alive. She had medications as well, and they were important and necessary to her quality of life – but she also knew that she wouldn’t die without them.

 

But she did envy Steve one thing – he had a kind of personal confidence and magnetism that drew people towards him. Carol could make herself nearly invisible in a crowded room, but she didn’t know how to pick one person out of that group and convince them to talk to her. She didn’t have that kind of personal confidence, the ability to demand attention or slide away from the notice of others at will.

 

(Years later, when they know each other like the back of their very own hands, Carol can look at Steve and know that depending on his mood, between sixty and eighty percent of that confidence is if not a lie, then an illusion that Steve creates to protect himself.)

 

Carol knew about this ability intellectually – she’d seen it happen, but not from firsthand experience.

 

The door closes quietly behind her as Carol drops her bag in the foyer. The Johnsons’ new house is a beautiful old thing from a time before air conditioning and it’s moments like these that Carol seriously questions her life decisions – like joining tennis club at the beginning of the summer.

 

“It’s so fucking hot out,” she mutters, taking a massive swig of water before hauling up her bag again. She has an urgent need to rip off her sweaty clothes and spend the next three hours standing in a cold shower.

 

She passes by the kitchen, where Steve appears to be tutoring an underclassman who is flirting with him rather shamelessly – Carol isn’t certain if that’s because she really has the hots for Steve or if she’s hoping she can con him into doing the work for her. If the latter, Carol wishes her luck. She’s not the first coed who had it in her head to take advantage of the combination of Steve’s helpful personality and loner nature.

 

Steve glances up as she walks past, eyes crinkling with private amusement that tells Carol the coed’s attempts at flirting have been noted and ignored. “Try plugging this formula into the problem,” he instructs the girl and smiles at Carol. “How was practice?”

 

“Unbearably hot,” she informs him, gesturing to the damp curls of blond hair hanging around her face. Hooking a thumb over her shoulder, Carol adds “Gonna take a shower and start dinner if you want to take the laundry?”

 

Steve grins. “You got it ‘hot stuff’,” he says, gesturing to her flushed and sweaty state.

 

Carol shoves him, barely moving him on his stool. “I see your dad jokes, sir, and I sneer. You won’t be laughing when you have to have to wash these socks.”

 

She lightly hops up the stairs. She saw the underclassman rolling her eyes and assumed she was unimpressed by their jokes, but Carol’s mind has already moved on to mentally cataloging the contents of the fridge.

 

Fresh from her cool shower, Carol opts for pjs and goes back downstairs to make dinner. Ty and Tandy won’t be home until late, which is why Billie is at a sitter’s but, she’ll be nice and make extra for their lunches tomorrow. Returning to the kitchen, she starts assembling dinner, finally setting a timer next to the stove for the chicken and cracking open a can of LaCroix.

 

She pokes Steve as she passes him in the middle of drawing. “Don’t forget the laundry, Steven. Dinner is in an hour.”

 

He says “Yes, Mom!” in his dopiest voice and pinches her on the thigh, making her yelp and spill on her shirt. In retaliation, Carol bites him on the shoulder and goes into the living room to watch the news.

 

Steve fondly rolls his eyes and continues his drawing, idly capturing the clean straight way Carol holds her spine, the way her hip cocks as she stands at the stove. This morning, Ty was nice enough to sit still at his desk for him but this way he can study a whole form rather than just the from the waist up.

 

The underclassman watches Carol sashaying away and narrows her eyes at the drawing as Steve fills in the curve of her other hip and the long, lean lines of her legs. “It’s pretty gross, you know, flirting with your own sister like that.”

 

Steve, not really giving her his full attention, says “Uh, no – I know we’re both blonde and short, but we aren’t actually siblings. The Johnsons’ are our foster parents.”

 

“Oh, I see,” she answers, lips pursed.

 

“See…what?” Steve asks slowly, genuinely puzzled.

 

“Must be pretty convenient, living with your girlfriend.”

 

Steve doesn’t argue with her statement – not because she came to the correct conclusion but because she has clearly already decided that she is right and it’s obvious that nothing he says will convince her otherwise. What he does do is watch Carol as they sit down to dinner.

 

With one knee under her chin, Carol smiles at him from across the table, slowly chewing and swallowing each precise bite of broccoli. In a tank top and pajama shorts, she’s all smooth legs and suntan, smelling of apricots from her shower. It’s not the first time he’s noticed that Carol is pretty. It’s just the first time he’s let himself absorb the observation. “Your little friend was pretty cross when she left,” she remarks, one leg swinging carelessly. “She’s a bit of a sourpuss, Steve, I don’t think you should keep her.”

 

Steve often admires Carol’s mental focus and organization, but she’s always physically restless. Sometimes it gets on his nerves a bit. “She thinks I have a girlfriend,” he says calmly, watching the confusion form over Carol’s face.

 

“Really?” she says, giggling a bit. “Which lucky lady should I be congratulating?”

 

“You.”

 

“Yes, Steven?” She glances at Steve, misunderstanding his answer.

 

“No, _you_ , Carol Ann. She got pissed off because she thought _we’re_ together.”

 

“Uh, why?” she asks, brows pinching together. “She saw me for all of ten minutes.”

 

He looks at her again, let’s the knowledge of his own artist’s eye take her all in. Her pale hair sweeps over her right shoulder and her fingers, fine and slender, curl around the crystal of her water glass. Her eyes are blue, but not like Steve’s eyes are blue. Steve’s are vivid and deep and somber, a blue like the deep oceans. Carol’s eyes have secret tints of gray and green. Like rainy mornings in spring.

 

“Probably because you’re pretty and I keep smiling at you.”

 

Steve watches Carol start to sputter and turn red. “I…um, I mean, w-what?”

 

He sets his chin on his hand and shows her the notebook page of his sketch. “It’s me,” she says immediately, barely looking at it. “Why is that a big deal? You draw me almost every day.”

 

He nods. “It’s good practice to go back to the same model.” Steve frowns at the paper. Maybe what’s obvious to him isn’t obvious to someone else. But…no. He lifts his gaze to look at her and Carol is still bemused, still restless, still tired and soft and quietly lovely. “You’re a pretty girl, Danvers.”

 

She laughs wildly. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Steve wants to argue with her, but that laugh makes him shut his mouth, the crazy cackle that signals her nerves. Knowing each other now means that they know when one of them has pushed too far and he’s at the edge of that boundary.

 

They talk about their parents, they talk about school, they talk about their jobs – presently and in the future. Carol has given him a vague idea of her problems with her mother and stepfather and Steve has given her a vague idea of way his death seems to stalk him all his life.

 

They don’t talk about friends that aren’t each other. They don’t go on dates or out to the school dances. In their isolation, they are safe.

 

Late at night, still on a summer schedule, he and Carol force the ancient Super Nintendo to boot up Mario Kart and Carol whups his ass good and proper with a five-star score on Rainbow Road. She dances around the room, dancing around and giving him the finger, until with a burst of motion, Steve grabs her round the waist and drags her onto their piles of pillows. She screams and thrashes as Steve tickles her mercilessly.

 

“Stop, you little shithead!” she shrieks through her giggles. “Oh my god, stop, I’m gonna kill you, Rogers!”

 

“What was that?! What was that?! I’m sorry, I can’t hear you!” he answers gleefully, dodging all of her attempts to kick him.

 

She finally elbows him in the ribs and they wrestle all over the floor, sending pillows everywhere. This is not unusual – Tandy claims that it’s good practice and they ought to fight to the death at least twice a week. What is unusual is Carol losing – Carol has a high endurance even when not compared to Steve, and she is nearly as competitive and stubborn as he is – and then Steve leaning down to kiss her pink, gasping mouth.

 

Her wrists are pinned over her head and if he were just about any other person, that alone would make her struggle. She doesn’t necessarily feel helpless, but the way he holds her down makes her feel…smaller. In a good way. Heat crawls down the length of her body and her hips buck up into Steve’s.

 

She isn’t really surprised to feel him stiff in his pants, but a hot thrill goes her through all the same and she moans “Steve…what…?”

 

He draws his mouth faintly across her cleavage, delicate in a way that sears her flesh. Licks lines of fire across her neck. “Because, Carol Ann, you’re a beautiful girl and I’m the boy who sees you every day.”

 

She chokes, laughs, sobs.

 

For Steve, Carol doesn’t have to explain what’s under her shorts, and Steve still looks at her and sees a girl, no questions asked. For Steve, she doesn’t feel like she’s misleading someone who will turn on her the moment she gets naked. Someone who will accuse her of deceptions and wickedness when she merely tries to be herself.

 

Steve sees Carol every day.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“You should take your clothes off,” she answers nonsensically.

 

“My clothes?”

 

“And my clothes.” She slides her legs around his waist.

 

“Yeah?” he whispers. He seems fascinated by the smooth skin of her calves, her thighs. Teases her right under the hem of her shorts. “And then what?”

 

“Then,” she whispers in his ear. “Steven. I want you to do things to me that would drive my mother crazy.”

 

“Oh, Carol Ann, it will be my absolute _privilege_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I didn't tag "Steve/Carol" in this fic. Barnes and Noble is endgame for this universe and I thought it would be mean for Captain-Squared fans to begin reading this only to realize it has almost nothing to do with their pairing of choice.
> 
> I know that Brie Larson was cast to play Carol and I'm sure she'll do a great job, but my Carol is a trans character and I therefor picture a trans actress for her. Isley Reust has, from what I can tell, a somewhat similar style and is my personal headcanon for this Carol Danvers :)


	6. in bloom (lavender)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just a chapter of Bad Things. Please go over the tags.
> 
> Lavender is a symbol of calmness, grace, and distrust.

_"I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;_

_Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate;_

_With overheard a lamp of red I sit me down and wait_

_Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame;_

_Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones - tis I who know their shame."_

\- "The Harpy", Robert W. Service

Steve doesn’t tell Carol. He doesn’t have to. They both know that he’s a little…detached would probably be the kindest way to put it… in bed once the novelty of sex as a virgin starts to wear off.

 

He doesn’t tell he that sometimes he has what feel like very strange urges. Urges to scratch her, bite her, choke her. Urges to make her cry and wail. To hurt her, and dominate her. It’s nothing serious – he doesn’t want to cause any lasting pain or damage and almost nothing gets him more worked up than the idea of her enjoying these things – but Steve is ashamed and disgusted with himself regardless. What kind of person does that to someone they care about? And a more secret part of himself, a part that lives in fear, is worried that if he gives into these desires, it will start him down a path to ever darker sadistic urges.

 

Carol looks over her shoulder into the mirror and raises an eyebrow at Steve’s reflection on the other side of the room. Bruises belt both of her hips and there’s a red bite mark on her shoulder blade. “Got a little excited there?”

 

“Sorry,” Steve mutters, trying to hide how excited he is at the markings – his markings – visible on her body.

 

She winces as she puts her bra on. “Well go easy on me next time, tough guy. Not all of us spend our days letting people break our nose.”

 

“Ha-de-har-har. Are you Carol Danvers or Carol Burnett?”

 

“Ooh, that’s a good one.” They high five before putting on their shoes and heading to class.

 

Next time, Steve gouges the headboard trying not to hold Carol down. When they graduate high school, Steve attends college for the arts and Carol goes into the military. They don’t keep up their physical relationship, though they still technically live together.

 

Carol knows that despite their excellent working partnership, Steve is often emotionally distant from her and…

 

And she loves him, and he’s her best friend, but she also knows that he is just a little _too_ convenient for her. Someone she doesn’t have to reach out for, someone that is accepting without her having to work too hard. Their rapport is easy often verging on careless – there’s no risk between them other than their jobs, but there’s also little reward. They like each other, find each other attractive, but beyond teenage hormones, there isn’t anything there to make their hearts race.

 

Carol could’ve easily stayed with Steve, maybe one day have been his wife, died on the job together.

 

But all of that would’ve been just a little too easy, and if there’s one thing she and Steve have in common, they are not easy people, and they can both see that their futures are beginning to branch into separate paths. They have their eyes on the same sky, but different stars.

 

Steve hugs Carol goodbye on the day she leaves for bootcamp, knowing that when she returns, they will have reset this relationship once more. Maybe not for the better but certainly not for the worse. Tandy does not cry when they drop him off at college, but she squeezes him close, tight and fierce. Ty makes sure he has all his papers and schedules before saying farewell.

 

“You can still call,” he says, his husky tones as gentle as ever.

 

“But I won’t,” Steve responds, staring intently at the quad around them. Three years ago, he never would’ve guessed this moment would be so hard.

 

“It won’t look that odd, keeping in touch. We’re on your official papers.”

 

Tyrone never loved him more than when Steve answers “It isn’t worth risking Billie.”

 

“Just…” Tandy sighs and runs her hand through her hair. It’s been a long time since Tyrone saw her this lost. “It’ll look odder if you don’t. At least call a few times a year, all right?”

 

Steve’s shoulders relax slightly. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“Okay,” Tandy repeats and gently smooths down his hair, whispering. “Take care of yourself, Steven. No stupid risks, at least not while you have no back-up.”

 

“I’ll be careful,” he promises quietly, letting himself sink briefly into her embrace.

 

It’ll be awhile before lets himself be so vulnerable again.

\---

Steve hates how small and weak-looking he is, but part of his training has taught him to lean into that appearance. It’s an act, and one that leads to a spiral of self-loathing, but it works so, so fucking well that it’s hard to avoid slipping into.

 

He tries the BDSM but is quickly disillusioned with the whole thing. The Scene isn’t Steve’s scene, and more often than not is a hunting grounds for sexual predators of the worst kind – especially in places that are not well-watched by the more responsible members of the community.

 

Everything around him tells Steve that the way he reacts to pleasure is abnormal, that he should enjoy being manhandled, but everything inside Steve seems to rebel. Sexual pleasure starts to become a thing that happens to other people, the act itself a tool in Steve’s arsenal or a chore his current romantic partner expects him to perform and he willingly carries out.

 

He perfects a way of being during intercourse, a state of almost zen-like calm that takes him over that allows his body to go through the motions while his mind is constantly going – listening closely to every sound, taking in the details of his surroundings, filing away information on his partners. Unlike Carol, they don’t seem to notice that Steve is not really paying attention. In his more cynical moments, Steve wonders if they would even care if they did.

 

He doesn’t enjoy himself but, after all, that’s the _point_. It’s the only way to stop the impulses from happening.

 

In the few moments that he slips up and lets himself feel it too much, it always ends in disaster.

 

Carol, later Sam, and even later Peggy, becoming increasing vocal about the disinterested way Steve handles romantic partners and the often abusive ways _they_ handle _him_.

 

“Steve, you’ve got bruises _everywhere_.”

 

“Steve, man, if I see that piece of shit around here again, I’m calling the cops.”

 

“Steve, you bloody well don’t need this kind of arsehole!”

 

He understands why Sam and Peggy are unsettled by this – Steve can’t explain that this is just how it has to be when you do field work. But Carol knows how he does business.

 

You gotta get your hands dirty. If it’s your own blood on ‘em sometimes, just make sure you ain’t choking on it.

 

It’s hard for Carol to argue with the kind of results he gets, especially when it results them moving into the “Big 10” less than three years into their careers. But when they were in school together, Carol had strict rules for the way he played this game that she knows he isn’t following them quite as well anymore.

 

Base-jumping with a kite string.

 

It probably isn’t so surprising that Steve develops a certain degree of cynicism regarding sexual interests who pursue him. It doesn’t take him long to realize that there are two types of people willing to date him. They are both bad and they are almost exclusively male. The first finds it appealing that Steve could be mistaken for an underage boy and the second enjoys using their difference in size to dominate him.

 

Steve is a sickly, frail artist with, when he isn’t exercising the small degree of tact Carol instilled in him, a bad temper. Or as Carol puts it: “All bark, all bite, all day, all night.”

 

Opinionated and uncompromising, Steve is all angles and no muscle.

 

Mirrors make him scowl and he avoids being naked at all, his body canvass of skin the color of milk filled with a map of purple-blue veins. He wheezes, he wears glasses, his spine is crooked, and he’s got the mouth of truck-driver on a three-day bender. He doesn’t need a mirror to remind himself of this.

 

Carol and Peggy are the exception rather than the rule and well…He is more of a distraction until something better comes along, to be honest. He doesn’t mind. Never let it be said Steve Rogers is fool enough to scorn the attentions of gorgeous women.

 

He wouldn’t wanna fuck him, either. There is nothing at all surprising to him that only the worst kind of person is willing to undress him. Not that he ever says so out loud – Steve thinks that’s pretty obvious.

 

His body is a tool, like his mind, like his talents. (He exploits it because when you hate something that much, you don’t care how other people treat it, even when it belongs to you.)

 

Steve believes this to be true for many long years, even after he’s given up the business of espionage. Until…

 

“Welcome to the Red Star. I’m Natasha.”


	7. in bloom (nightshade, enchanter's)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We check up on the origins of another Scourge of the Underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When most people hear 'nightshade' they think of belladonna, the lethally poisonous purple flower, but nightshade is actually a terrifically versatile family of plants. Potatoes, tomatoes, eggplants, chili peppers, and tobacco are all technically 'nightshade'. However, Enchanter's Nightshade is actually a member of the evening primrose family rather than true nightshade. 
> 
> It symbolizes witchcraft and sorcery, but also skepticism.

September 2009

“Fury wants you to take a trainee,” Carol says without preamble, plopping into her chair at the desk beside him. When Steve raises his brows to convey his skepticism, she adds “We’ve both been with the department for nearly five years and you’ve never once taken on a pupil, Steve. I’m already on number two.”

 

Steve cocks his head. This is true. Normally you aren’t allowed to take trainees until you hit the Top 20 list – the twenty most successful veterans of the Scourge, but he and Carol managed to hit the Big 10 before high school graduation. The problem was, as high school students he and Carol were not eligible to accept trainees without their own housing.

 

The difference between ten and twenty was that as part of the Big 10, you were now considered upper management. The first three of this were the Head Spook, Deputy Phantom, and Third Ghost – these three were responsible for the riskiest assignments the Director had to offer. Typically, depending on the skills of the Third Ghost and Deputy, one had to deal with the financial reports and assignments – the paperwork aspects – while the other handles surveillance, secure comms, and evidence gathering and erasure. In other words, the tech.

 

The remaining seven were what the other Scourge affectionately called ‘the Unknowables’, a combination of subject experts and top recruiters. Steve has heard that during the Cold War, they kept on a fierce blond Russian lady codename Darkstar when it was clear the USSR was trying to make Russia a dead zone for the Scourge, and SHIELD in general.

 

They had made the Big 10 before graduating high school, mainly as recruiters based on their skills as character judges, and Carol knew very well that Steve wanted to be one of those first three leaders. He wouldn’t convince the Head to promote him if he didn’t show that he was willing to be a team player and actually do the long-term work of training those recruits through graduation.

 

Carol continues, “I think he already has someone in mind, but of course you get the final say.” Steve’s expression of skepticism only deepens, and she laughs. “Yeah, I know. Pretty sure this must have friends in high places.”

 

“What’s your read?”

 

She shrugs. “He’s a spoiled little rich boy in all the worst ways. Probably drive you crazy – assuming you don’t kill him first.”

 

Steve rolls his shoulders before planting his hands on the armrests and heaving his tired body up. “Let’s see the interview footage.”

 

Carol keeps sneaking glances at him during the interview video and when it finally ends, says “Well? Want me to tell Fury to send him to someone else? I think Longshot or Persuasion would take him.”

 

He gives a brief shake of the head. “Nope, I’ll take him.”

 

“Huh,” Carol mutters in disbelief. “I don’t envy you, that’s for sure.”

 

He smiles and if Carol were anyone else, it would make her uneasy. “He just needs to be broken in the right way.”

\---

When he was ten, Tom’s mother died during a trip to the Continent during the summer holidays. It was then that Tom found out that she was not his birth mother and the previously unexplained rift between him and Father yawned wider. At thirteen, he became an orphan the second time when Father died after all illness from the winter.

 

Newly orphaned, both he and his brother Chris – then fifteen – were placed into foster care.

 

Chris was large, blond, happy, and helpful. Tom was…the opposite of those things. Dark, moody, weedy, and mean, he would torment the younger children in the foster home until they wised up and gave him a wide berth. He skived off his classes, by turns ignored or talked back to his teachers, and in general made the household’s lives miserable.

 

He also pushed Chris away.

 

“Do you have to be such an arsehole all the time? We can’t just fend for ourselves here, Tommy! The least we could do is try to get along for the next couple of years – just until I can get a real job!”

 

“Don’t fucking call me that! And what the hell do you care anyway, you’re not even my _real_ brother!”

 

They had several conversations that ended exactly the same way.

 

It will take him awhile, but decades later, Tom will recall the look on Chris’s face with perfect clarity and there is just about no memory that makes him feel worse. Maybe Mother’s funeral.

 

He’s secretly glad, secretly always will be glad, that Chris never gave up on him.

 

Eventually, they are sent to London, to Dr. Eric Selvig, who is already caring for a young American niece named Darcy. In the first hour after he tries to flirt with her, Darcy punches Chris in the face and Tom nearly laughs himself sick. They are not really like a family, but they aren’t bad. Selvig is not…overly present in their lives, but he is decent man.

 

Chris thinks that Tom is taking a job as a technician in the Triskelion, the main SHIELD headquarters in D.C., where Chris is also stationed.

 

Well…that’s what he says he thinks. Even without Tom saying so, Chris doesn’t entirely seem to believe that to be true. He just doesn’t ask Tom to deny it.

 

When he enters the room, it isn’t Director Fury waiting in the room, but a tall, slender brunette woman is discussing something in low tones with two blonde women and a short, scruffy-looking redhaired man.

 

The brunette smiles. “Ah, hello, Thomas.” He conceals his surprise that she has a clear RP – he assumed for some reason that the Scourge was a strictly American organization but that’s rather silly. SHIELD is international, therefor the Scourge are, too. “Nice to finally meet you. You’ve come highly recommended.”

 

“Tom is fine. I presume you are the Director?”

 

“I’m Head Spook, yes,” she says with a pleasant smile, not bothering to give her real name. Gesturing to the man across from her, she adds, “This is my Deputy.”

 

He glances up at Tom, hazel eyes a startling blaze in his pale, freckled face. “Scarlet Spider, Deputy Phantom,” he says, in a southern drawl. “Finance, recruiting, and assignments.”

 

The blonde on Head Spook’s right she introduces as “My third in command.”

 

“Lionheart, Third Ghost.” As their eyes meet, Lionheart gives him a tight smile and the scar across her left cheekbone pulls into a taunt and silvery line. She’s a smart dresser – dark, prim skirt and a somber jacket, like a librarian or an accountant. “You’ll want to avoid spending much time with me.”

 

Her Welsh accent is so understated that Tom isn’t sure if she’s trying to cover it up or if time in America has just polished it down. He doubts that any American would ever notice it. “And why is that?”

 

“I’m in charge of disciplinary action,” she says grimly.

 

“Speaking of which,” the other blonde woman says cheerfully. “I’m sure Steve will have finished his housework any minute now and we can get started. I’m Ms. Marvel.”

 

Scarlet Spider snorts. “You’re nosy, is what you are.”

 

Lionheart frowns at her. “Did you leave Captain to clean up your mess?”

 

Ms. Marvel pouts, unrepentant, and perches herself on a filing cabinet. “He owed me a favor, anyway.” A pause and her head tilts. She draws a long line with her blue-and-gold fingernail down the front of body, adding “For Delgado.”

 

Scarlet Spider and Lionheart both wince and the Head Spook sighs “Very well.”

 

Tom puts on his most charming smile, the one that makes young women and young men alike trip over themselves. “So, will you be my trainer?”

 

A head shorter than him, Ms. Marvel smiles back at him like they are a cat and mouse and she is not the mouse in this scenario. She leans back on her hands, legs crossed, skirt slipping just high enough to show off the black lace of her stockings. Idly, she dangles her satin heel from one toe and says, with that cat-like smile, that one that says she knows he’s watching her. “You aren’t that lucky, Thomas.”

 

At first when the door opens, Tom thinks that it’s another blonde woman. A very slender butch woman. Then, the figure says, “Sorry that I’m late, got held up in a meeting.”

 

Woah. Didn’t expect that.

 

In a plaid dress shirt and pressed trousers, he hands Head Spook a piece of paper that makes her eyebrows shoot up. “Very good, Steven. This is Thomas Hemsworth, your new pupil. Thomas, this is the illustrious Captain, Steven Rogers.”

 

Thomas makes a terrible mistake in his first minute. “Why is my trainer a twelve year old?”

 

Steve cross his arms over his chest and simply stares him down, looking unimpressed. With a twinkle in her eye, Head Spook says, “Don’t kill him in the first hour, Steve.”

 

Steve, with nothing but a brief glance at Tom, says archly “Oh, I’ve only got to keep him alive for an hour? That shouldn’t be too hard. Getting the blood out will take longer than _that_.”

 

With that said, he turns and walks out the door, Tom staring at his retreating form in disbelief.

 

Amused and a bit patronizing, Ms. Marvel says “You’ll want to keep up with him, darling. His patience is limited-” Scarlet Spider snorts “Some may even say nonexistent.”

 

Tom practically crashes into a door jamb trying to catch up, flushing with embarrassment when he hears Ms. Marvel’s laughter behind him. Hearing a pair of heels down the corridor behind him, he glances over his shoulder to find her following him. “What are you doing?”

 

“Just like ‘Spidey said. I’m nosy.”

 

“Can you at least tell me your real name?”

 

“Classified,” she says immediately, in a way that instantly tells Tom that she’s fucking with him.

 

Steve leads them to what he first thinks is a locked janitor’s closet, but it filled with weapons. Weapons on all the walls, weapons on tables. He gestures for them to walk into the room and closes the door behind then. He holds his arms wide and turns a half circle. “Find me the most dangerous weapon in this room.”

 

Instead of examining the items, Tom shakes his head. “That’s easy. A gun. Whichever has the highest rate of fire will the deadliest – unless you have some sort of nuclear devise or weapon of mass destruction in this room.”

 

“No,” Steve says simply. “Not the worst answer maybe, but lazy, so still no. Carol? Would you like to help me educate my wayward student?”

 

“Oh, no, I’m enjoying each moment of this,” Ms. Marvel – apparently Carol – purrs, perched once more atop a filing cabinet. “Please do continue, I want to savor it. But all kidding aside, try not to murder him. His brother loves him, and I’ll have to help you hide the body.”

 

Like Carol, Steve is a full head shorter than Tom, and he eyes the diminutive blond. “I think I’m safe from Yorkie attacks, but I appreciate the concern.”

\---

Among the many training tools for the Scourge, in the lower levels, there is a large, deep pit filled with cold water. Cloak and Dagger used this on Steve and Carol – in their case it was both to teach them not to panic, but also help their pupils determine how long was too long for them to stay in those conditions.

 

“I’m not going down there,” Tom snorts.

 

Steve sighs, a tired long-suffering exhale, and lashes out suddenly, kicking him sharply at the back of the knee so that the joint buckles and Tom stumbles. Steve uses the moment of imbalance to shove him with all his strength, enough so that hopefully Tom won’t hit the side of the wall on the way down.

 

There’s a large splash as Tom falls into the pit, shouting in rage as the cold water hits him. They both ignore his loud and angry protests.

 

As Steve settles beside the wide opening, Carol studies him carefully. These past few weeks were hard. His latest assignment was investigating Agent Fellstedt in Brussels, for suspicions of causing his team leader’s death. Steve discovered him to be innocent of that crime, only to accidentally stumble upon the realization that Fellstedt was molesting his nieces, who were seven and four.

 

It wasn’t the first time, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t horrified. Nails glittering gold in the dim overheard lights of the submersion room, Carol reaches for her handbag and starts digging around, exclaiming in quiet triumph when she finds what she’s looking for. She holds out the chocolate bar for him expectantly, a white spider visible beneath the homemade cellophane wrapper.

 

“ _That_ is too strong, Carol Ann,” Steve says accusatorily. “I don’t need to be baked at work.”

 

“Yes, you do need it,” she insists angrily. “You haven’t been eating. Don’t test me, Steven - if you don’t take the damn candy bar, I’ll swap every piece of candy in your studio with White Widow chocolates.”

 

His doctor suggested medical marijuana for Steve to Tyrone after an especially difficult illness to keep up his appetite and lower his general anxiety, but because of Steve’s history of low blood pressure and severe asthma, the doctor thought smoking it would make matters worse rather than better. He was concerned that the rapid high could cause Steve to faint suddenly and at random moments.

 

Steve loved candy bars and Ty and Tandy realized that making it into candy required fewer ingredients than brownies, cookies, or some of the other more common applications. They’d begun putting symbols onto the bars loaded with medicinal pot just to keep track of the ones they had to hide from Billie. He and Carol had kept up with the practice out of habit.

 

With another aggrieved sigh, Steve snatches the chocolate bar and begins angrily and pointedly eating it in front of her. With a satisfied nod of the head, Carol gets up and says “Good. I’ll be back in an hour with lunch when the high hits.”

 

“You’re not my mother, Carol Ann, you don’t need to feed me.”

 

“No, you’re right – I’m your best friend and I’m worried about your weight right now. Skinny is fine, Steve, but you don’t gain weight unless you’re cramming yourself with chocolates, Ty’s milk gravy, and eight meals a day. You can’t afford to be straight-up skipping meals. If nagging is what it takes, I will turn Tandy fucking Bowen on your ass.”

 

“God forbid!” he exclaims, hands raised in surrender.  

 

“I’ll be back – just deal with your little brat.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Steve mumbles through a mouthful of chocolate, giving her a cheeky salute.

 

From the bottom of the tank, Thomas screams “I have been down here…For. Thirty. Minutes!!!”

 

Rolling his eyes, Steve replies “And if you keep pissing me off, you’ll be down there thirty more!”

 

He does not actually keep him down there thirty more minutes. The tank monitors Tom’s vital signs and while Steve could safely leave him there, he just gives him an extra ten to make sure the lesson sticks before flicking the button that ejects the ladder down into the water.

 

By now, most of the fight has gone out of him and Steve lets him wrap up in heavy towels. But all of this is pointless if Thomas doesn’t understand what he was attempting to teach him.

 

When he finds Steve suddenly right in front of him, Tom is so startled he nearly stumbles backwards. In a move that would be seductive if not for the instant shot of panic it seems to send through him, Steve slides his hands up the front of Tom’s wet jacket, grabs the lapels, and looks him dead in the eye. “Thomas, what’s the most dangerous weapon you know of?”

 

Steve’s eyes seem to be taking him all in, seeing every petty and terrible part of Tom’s whole self. The word just falls out of his mouth in a rush of fear. “You.”

 

Condescending and a little sorry for him, Steve pats Tom’s cheek. “Good boy. Do I really need to explain what will happen if you disrespect me again?”

 

Thomas swallows, heart clanging erratically in his chest. “No, sir.”

 

“Good,” Steve says warmly. “See, I told them you’d be a fast learner. What did we learn today, Thomas?”

 

“Not to disrespect you, sir.”

 

Steve smiles up at him darkly. “That’s a good lesson, but not the point of the exercise.” He leans close enough the Tom can feel his breath, warm and humid on his face. His eyes are pits, dark pools that make him feel seen, and small. “When your body tells you that you should be afraid, believe it.”

 

He shifts away so that Tom can get some air, taking in his pupils, drawn up into pins of black, and the shaking that the cold can’t entirely explain. Gently, Steve touches his face and Tom shudders in terror, but Steve does not pull away. “It’s okay to be afraid, but keep breathing. You’re having a panic attack, you just need to breathe through it. Deep, slow breaths.”

 

The lesson was learned almost too well. Steve goes from teaching Tom the reverse of what Tandy went through with Carol – not allowing his overconfidence to convince him he should ignore his basic instincts – to going over the exact same instructions she and Carol went through on controlling fear.

 

His first three weeks, Tom has a panic attack every time Steve takes him by surprise or encounters him unexpectedly. Each time, he talks his pupil through it and says the same thing “You can be afraid, that’s okay. Listen to the fear, but don’t obey it.”

 

After all, Steve was dangerous, but he was far from the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this seem weird? It seems weird, but it's necessary. Also it gives a bit of insight on Steve's attitude later.


	8. in bloom (nightshade, deadly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki-the-canon-character clearly has some mental health problems so I wanted that reflected in my 'mundane' version. However, I wasn't comfortable with writing him the way he's portrayed in films because it's not terribly consistent writing? (Taika's Thor and Loki are characterization masterpieces PROVE ME WRONG!!)
> 
> Deadly nightshade is also called 'belladonna', meaning 'beautiful lady', because it was used as a cosmetic tincture by Italian women to artificially dilate the pupils and make them appear more alluring (do not try that at home, children!). It is EXTREMELY toxic. 
> 
> Symbolically, though, deadly nightshade stands for silence - this is because a frequent symptom of poisoning is lose of speech.

_"That I would be the jewel_

_That trembles in her ear:_

_For hid in ringlets day and night,_

_I'd touch her neck so warm and white_

_And I would be the girdle_

_About her dainty, dainty waist,_

_And her heart would be against me,_

_In sorrow and in rest.”_

\- "The Miller's Daughter", Alfred Lord Tennyson

2009

By the end of his first year with the Scourge, Tom has come to a few important conclusions.

 

The first is that Steve Rogers is the Actual Devil.

 

Milton, Alighieri, Blake, Marlowe, Lord of the Flies, Rosemary’s Baby, The Omen, and Doctor Who all got it fucking wrong. The devil is not a horned creature, a talking pig’s carcass, or some tragic figure trapped in the depths of hell, because the devil is a tiny furious blond man constantly on the edge of death who lives a life somewhere between a serial killer who’s actually quite nice to children and the elderly, and an exhausted college undergrad, with a personality that somehow combines the morals of a saint and the patience and temper of a dominatrix on her period…at the full moon.

 

The fact that he is inexplicably _fond_ of this demonic entity, Tom fears, is more a statement on his own sanity than Steve’s.

 

Steve regularly beats his arse black and blue to keep their combat skills sharp, he barks orders at him like an actual Captain running a squad, and his criticism of Tom is relentless, honest, and brutal. He is a taskmaster in every sense of the word and won’t let Tom get away with Jack. Shit. It should feel like being a subordinate to his late father.

 

But it doesn’t.

 

There’s a particular gleam in his eye, a twist of a smile to his mouth Steve gets when Tom has done something correctly. When he tries harder, pushes more. When he makes a moral decision rather than the expedient one. “You’ve done well,” he’ll say, warm and sincere. “You’ve done very well, Thomas.”

 

Unlike Father, Steve’s approval feels attainable and less fleeting. He is not forever being measured against the physical merits of his brother and found lacking.

 

(Again, he doesn’t really want to examine why he’s emotionally attached himself to this hell-god as a father-figure, despite Steve being a head shorter than him and three years younger. If he pauses to examine this too long, he’s afraid of what he’ll find.)

 

Tom knows that he will eventually have to deal with Steve and The Days.

 

At week nine, the alarm goes off and Tom stares at his closet. All of his limbs feel heavy and while he normally feels sharp and focused his mind just kind of drifts. He knew this was coming: it’s been an inevitable descent over a period of days. Last night, he had a hard time sleeping despite feeling exhausted and his mind couldn’t quite settle on any single activity and he ate a series of snacks instead of having dinner.

 

He forces himself to roll over and text Deathcry, the woman in charge of Scourge personnel at the D.C. office, to say that he’s not coming in today.

 

He should shower. Brush his teeth. Brush his hair. Shave. At least get out of bed and eat breakfast in front of the telly (the minimum effort needed to make Chris happy). Getting dressed is out of the question so he doesn’t even bother fantasizing he’d do that.

 

But Tom doesn’t do any of those things. Instead he lays in bed and stares at the closet door, his brain feeling like dirty sludge.

 

He isn’t entirely surprised when Steve walks through his bedroom door and looks around the darkened room, eyes resting on Tom’s form, draped across the bed like a pile of laundry. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Heard you weren’t feeling well.”

 

Tom grunts, but doesn’t bother saying anything. His father used to do something similar. The lectures about getting his lazy arse out of bed stopped when the old bastard died, and he has no intereste in bringing that tradition back.

 

Steve eyes him critically. “The question is: are you physically unwell, mentally unwell, or emotionally unwell?”

 

The question surprises Tom enough that their eyes meet. He doesn’t think anyone has ever asked him that. He doesn’t think he can say ‘emotionally’. Tom doesn’t feel _bad_ , precisely. He doesn’t actually feel much of anything. Hoarsely, voice unused to talking, he replies “Second.”

 

Steve simply says “Alright” and walks out of the room. He doesn’t leave – Tom can hear him in the moving around in the flat. When he comes back, he’s carrying soup and a glass of water.

 

“You don’t need to get out of bed, but you do need to eat and drink something.”

 

“How did you get in?”

 

“You’ve got a balcony,” Steve says, shrugging. “You’re a freshman and you live alone, so a check-in is mandatory when you call in sick – keep that in mind if you wanna play hooky.”

 

He sits on the other side of the bed and stretches out, making it clear that he is not leaving until his orders are followed. Tom goes through the motions of eating and drinking mechanically. If asked, he couldn’t have even immediately identified what kind of soup it was – as if it went straight from the bowl to his stomach.

 

Steve takes the dishes from him and remains sitting with him, even though Tom continues to stare off into the distance. More gently than expected, he says “This used to happen to me a lot, too. But my foster mom wouldn’t let me stay in bed.”

 

“Father didn’t either,” Tom says faintly, staring up at the ceiling. The soup has him feel uncomfortably full. “Didn’t tolerate laziness.”

 

“That sounds like a shitty dad,” Steve mutters, shaking his head. “I was _emotionally_ unwell. Tandy – my foster mother – realized that the impulse to stay home and lay in bed usually preceded a tilt towards suicidal thoughts. She’d take days off her classes and get behind in her schoolwork, just so I wouldn’t be alone. Just so…she could work me back up to going out into the real world again.”

 

Steve leaves him with another glass of water and ends the visit by touching the top of his head gently. “Just get some rest,” he murmurs, as though he is unaware that Tom has spent the whole day doing nothing. “You can try again tomorrow.”

 

It’s the first time he can remember having an episode where another person’s response _isn’t_ trying to make him immediately get better.

\---

Steve is the one who gives him a name.

 

“You said that your parents called you and your brother ‘Thor and Loki’ when you were children, right?” Steve asks on his graduation.

 

“Yes,” he answers bitterly. As a child, they’d thought it was funny, but the older Tom got, the more he’d grown to hate the nickname. Thor was the hero, the god of thunder and lightning, and Loki was a shapeshifting troublemaker that everyone either used or demonized or both.

 

Steve says, “I think I’ve got the perfect name picked out.” Oh. Oh, no, please let him not be haunted by his childhood nickname… Steve squeezes one of his shoulders, his hands surprisingly large for the rest of his frame. “You’ll be Fenrir – bringer of the apocalypse.”

 

Tom finds that while he couldn’t be happy with Loki, he experiences the rare occurrence of liking who he is as Fenrir.

\---

Tom’s second conclusion is that Carol is a witch.

 

A witch, or an alien, or maybe a lesser fucking order of demon than Steve, but a demon nonetheless.

 

(Carol is _also_ , and Tom feels that this is crucial information to add: **Super. Fucking. Hot.** Like, _stupid_ hot. But Carol can crush his windpipe – he has seen a demonstration of this – so he is not dumb enough to say that out loud. A woman who looks like Carol doesn’t need him to point that out to her. Tom has no problem admitting that he is the walking British cliché of a buttoned up man in a suit with tons of sexual kinks, but he’s not become fucking _suicidal_ , for god’s sake.)

 

Anyway, Tom’s pretty sure she’s a shapeshifter of some sort.

 

Carol will come to the Triskelion as one person and leave the Triskelion as another. In the year before his graduation, it went something like this…

 

Two weeks after his orientation, there is a truly gorgeous chav with an arse and pair of legs that should honestly be in artwork sitting on top of a desk in Steve’s office, looking bored as she texts on her phone with long fake nails that are a slick, shiny gold. Her tiny shorts and crop-top are silver with a faint sheen of glitter, a tiny silver ring through her belly button, and her skin-tight leggings are patterned like golden fish scales. Bracelets crawl up her tiny wrists. Her lips and eyeshadow are also gold and her bouncy blond hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail.

 

Tom wouldn’t mind having this chav in his lap right now. The question is: what is the chav doing in the ‘Tech’ department at SHIELD, far enough inside to find the Marvel Twins’ office?

 

She glances up at him through her sparkling eyelashes, her eyes a hazy green around the gold. Her fingers never stop moving – not texting. She’s playing Robot Unicorn Attack. “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” he replies automatically. Then: “Who the hell are you?”

 

She releases her thumbs from the screen, letting her skeleton-robo-unicorn crash into the clouds and says, amused “Tom, I just saw you four days ago.”

 

She stands upon on her impossibly tall stiletto boots. Her perfume – something that smells of marshmallows and strawberries – makes him dizzy. “Carol?!”

 

“Nothin’ but.” Carol blows a kiss at him before she walks away, hips swaying, “See you, loser.”

 

He doesn’t feel that bad about not recognizing her – he’s only met her twice and both times Carol was dressed something like a femme fatale in a film noir piece. Figuring-hugging skirt, black silk stocking, shoes in satin or velvet, and red lips.

 

Three months in, he finds her outside the building. Messy ponytail, tight shorts, sneakers, black-and-yellow striped shirt that makes her look like a bumblebee. Bubblegum lip gloss slicking up her lips as she smiles at him, small and shy. The sugar-sweet scent of marshmallows follows him as he passes her by.

 

He has to double-take before he realizes that it’s Carol.

 

He feels doubly stupid, because Tom may not be a genius, but he knows that innocent little smile is a sham.

 

Four and a half months in, he nearly falls down an escalator in the main atrium because she’s wearing a black leather skirt so short it could be considered indecent exposure and a see-through black mesh top that shows off her bra. (It’s blue-and-white classic sailor stripes, with tiny cherries, strangely cute against the rest of the outfit). Her hair is in wild curls and his time he knows it’s Carol as soon as he stands behind her because that sugary perfume fills the air around her.

 

Carol feels a presence looming over her, looks over her shoulder to see Tom standing there, and winks at him, walking out of the atrium without a word.

 

Seven months in Steve actually sends Tom out with her, and when he meets her in the parking lot, she is back in the silver-and-gold chavette’s outfit, tapping her tell heels on the blacktop as she leans against a pale blue convertible.

 

“I understand that this is about being undercover and blending in,” he tells Carol as she takes 295 out of D.C. towards Baltimore. They are choked with traffic, practically standing still in the summer heat. Instead of turning on the A/C, Carol has the top down (fucking Americans), the setting sun baking her limbs, flashy gold and rhinestone aviators on her face. “What I don’t understand is – why isn’t Steve here doing this?”

 

“Being in the department-” this was the vague way the Scourge discussed it outside of surveillance-proof rooms “-means that you have to play up your strengths. And Steve is a shit liar,” Carols says simply. “Like, epically terrible at it. He has the innocent sort of face that looks immediately guilty whenever he lies. He can’t really lie about who is – it’s why he comes to the office with split lips and busted cheeks and bruises all over his back. He can’t lie, so he has to insert himself in their lives somehow and because he grabs up high-risk assignments, that usually means it leaves a mark.”

 

“Why?” Carol laughs at his face, screwed up with confusion. “Seriously, why does he take such high-risk jobs knowing that it will probably result in him being beaten within an inch of his life?”

 

“Because Steve, as you might have recently noticed, is filled with rage and completely fearless and those are a terrible combination. It’s an extremely effective method and provides excellent results, especially if you know what you’re doing,” she admits. “But he assumes that you, Thomas, are not fearless and filled with rage, so I’ve agreed to show you safer ways to hide yourself that will lower your chance of ending up dead in an alley somewhere.”

 

Dryly, Tom says “Thank you, Carol, I appreciate it.”

 

She takes him to a club – 101, 310, some kind of random number – and while it’s not his favorite place to be, Tom can navigate this scene. The bartender is a woman and looks like a _dish_ , so Tom flirts with her long enough to convince her to serve him straight water instead of beer before joining Carol on the dance floor.

 

“You’re good at this,” Carol comments. Not a compliment – an observation, one that she seems to file away for later. Cocking her head, she says “Did you catch her name?”

 

Tom pauses, partially because he is recalling the information and partially because Carol has stepped into his personal space. Smoothing her tiny hands across his shoulders and down his chest. “V-Vanessa.”

 

“What color were her eyes?” Sidling closer to him as they sway side to side.

 

Carol’s were hazy green again, a side-effect of the glittery gold eyeshadow she wore. He inhales sharply with surprise as she guides his hands around the curve of her little waist. “…brown?”

 

“That was a total guess,” Carol says, amused. “But I’ll give it to you this once.”

 

Her hand slides slowly up the muscles of his abs and chest. “Now, let’s talk about being distracted,” she whispers, sidling even closer, any space between them disappearing. “What was Vanessa wearing – no, keep your eyes on me, you don’t get to cheat, Thomas.”

 

“Black pants,” he says slowly, hoping he’s giving the impression of someone who’s thinking hard instead of someone who trying not to sport an erection. “A white top – cotton. Name tag on the…left side.”

 

Remembering Vanessa was pretty fucking hard when he was looking straight into Carol’s eyes. ( _She’s a witch, she’s a witch, she’s a goddamn shapeshifting witch_!)

 

“Very good,” she purrs and Tom chokes on air when she moves his hold on her waist down to her arse. “The most important part of cover is blending in – make yourself part of the crowd. Doing this is easy, especially if you have a prop like a broom or tools…or another person.”

 

She sways against him, murmuring “Pretend to be groping me – and make sure we stay in the sightlines of that man in the denim jacket.”

 

He doesn’t have to pretend.

 

Carol expects a couple of obvious squeezes, maybe some light touching underneath her clothes if Tom is especially bold – she can see how he looks at her, but she’s equally certain she isn’t _quite_ Tom’s type. She has something uh, extra? than he’s looking for. ‘Not like other girls’ is perhaps the tongue in cheek way to put it.

 

She isn’t ashamed of herself – maybe fifteen-year-old Carol was a little ashamed, twenty-two-year-old Carol has zero fucks to give – but she knows all about Tom, about his type. A gorgeous man, and he knows it. The perfect specimen of a white cis-het man. Well-educated, rich, and charming in a sleazy way. Sometimes, it makes Carol want to break all his teeth. There’s a tiny chance he wouldn’t have a shitty reaction to the realization that her biological parts are not as expected, but it’s so remote she has no desire to test it.

 

But he apparently takes her instructions very seriously because this man doesn’t grope her ass – he doesn’t grab her or squeeze her or even caress her. Thomas Hemsworth fondles her ass like he’s planning to recreate a fucking life-size replica of it. Blindfolded.

 

“Who’s the man in the jacket?” he asks, bending to kiss the underside of her jaw.

 

“An agent’s younger brother. Fury believes that she helped him cover up – if not commit – a crime in this building.” She can feel herself getting turned on the more he touches her, a tingle spreading over her chest down the tops of her breasts. “You’re taking an awful lot of liberties there, Thomas.”

 

“You haven’t broken any of my fingers yet,” he whispers, tighten his grip on her ass to pull her closer. Tom likes her little elven face – the dull red flush crawling over her cheekbones and the tips of her ears. “I consider that a victory.”

 

“Why, sir, you make me sound like such a frightful terror!” The way she bats her eyelashes and pouts, all feigned innocence, makes Tom throw his head back and laugh. Carol has more than mastered a perfect tuck, and if Tom’s fingers wander any closer to the seam of her buttocks, he’s going to get the surprise of a lifetime.

 

But more than that – the pleasurable tingle sweeps from the top of her chest through her nipples, sending a pulse through her whole body. A sharp pain shocks through her lower abdomen, surprising her enough that Carol gasps out loud.

 

She’s heard that getting hard while tucked can be incredibly painful, but she’s never experienced it firsthand. And it’s even worse than described. Breathless and caught between pinpricks of pleasure and throbbing agony, Carol says “You-you need to stop that.”

 

Tom does not break cover, but his hands move on a sensual path just below her breasts and hanging onto to her ribcages. “Are you okay? You sound a bit…”

 

All thought wipes out of her mind. Although breathy and hushed, her voice had dropped noticeably.

 

“…odd. Carol? Carol, you’re white as a ghost.”

 

_(Tyrone graduated with honors and was in his choir in college. He spent hours with Carol helping her to perfect her feminine voice. So that she could speak, sing, laugh, cry, and whisper in a woman’s voice. “Try again, high up – don’t sing from the chest, sing up from your head. Think of the way a bell sounds when it chimes,” he explains, then sings to scale “Ca-rol’s voice sounds like a bell!”_

_Higher, she responds “Ste-ven’s voice sounds just like hell!”_

_“Hey! Fuck you!”)_

 

Her slip-up has squashed any ability to get hard again and calmer now, Carol continues the evening as normal. She praises Tom for a job well done and resumes her regular schedule.

 

The fifth time is the literal last straw and Tom is pretty certain that somewhere there’s a United States law against what she’s wearing.

 

She’s sitting in the 3rd floor café, reading a book, her feet propped up on another chair, plaid flats abandoned on the polished marble floor. Her little skirt is in a matching plaid of black and gray and a long knit scarf of soft white wool is wrapped around her neck and shoulders, the long tassels brushing her bare thighs. Black socks with little cat-ears and cat-faces at the top climb all the way over her knees. They’re very cute and Tom thinks they would look much cuter draped on either side of his face – preferably with Carol still in them.

 

She looks soft, warm, and sweet and Tom has several moments of hazy-eyed fantasies about what it would take to get her pink, squirming, and panting for him. Fondly, he recalls that heavy flush over the tops of her cheeks and ears.

 

When Carol looks up at sees him watching her, her wide smile is so mischievous and knowing that Tom knows it’s the real one. She doesn’t bother looking up from her book he takes the chair beside her.

 

The air around her smells like marshmallows and strawberries, now with the delicious addition of chocolate from the drink near her elbow.

 

Thomas feels restless, impatient. Vaguely irritated that she continues to ignore him. Yet he resists the urge to pester her or otherwise try to gain her attention – experience with Carol, with the Marvel Twins as a pair, have taught him that “acting like a brat” rarely gets him what he wants and often gains him painful lessons in earning their displeasure.

 

But then again…that knowing, mischievous little smirk…

 

Casually, he drapes a hand over her bare thigh, his fingertips gently skimming the soft skin. Carol turns a page, eyebrows high, still reading her novel. “Did you gain a death wish while I wasn’t looking, Tom?”

 

“Think of it as…calling your bluff,” he murmurs.

 

“Really? How do you figure?”

 

He leans over, gently plays with the hem of her thick plaid skirt. “You still haven’t broken any of my fingers.”

 

“Oh, is that what it will take?” she asks, sounding bored.

 

“Come on, Carol,” he whispers, “We both know if you weren’t interested, you’d have busted my balls and walked away already.”

 

She sighs, “It isn’t as simple as that, Thomas.”

 

They have to attend a staff meeting because they are a part of the Central Scourge stationed at the Triskelion. Though Tom was hoping to see Carol again, Steve says “A minute with my twin, Ms. Marvel.”

 

Tom wonders if he’s going to talk to Carol about his behavior, if this is what she meant by ‘not that simple’.

 

The central staff room, Steve looks straight at Carol and says “You can’t keep letting him pant and hump your leg – if Lionheart notices, one of you will be cited for harassment and it could be you, Carol. He might be a man, but you’re his superior officer and you haven’t put a stop to it or filed for declaration of exemption on office relationship status.”

 

“He doesn’t know that I’m trans and I have no intention of telling him,” she says with a sneer, “Thomas is nice enough, but we both know his type, Steve. He doesn’t want _me_ , he wants a challenge.”

 

“Then say yes and let him move on or say no and let HR deal with him if he keeps going. He isn’t transphobic.” Carol raises an eyebrow at him and Steve scowls. “Do you really think I’d have wasted my time on him if I thought he was a scumbag?”

 

“Not being a transphobe is pretty different from fucking a transwoman – especially if she can’t hide the ‘trans’ part of the ‘woman’,” Carol retorts.

 

Steve sighs. “You don’t have to tell him. God knows I won’t out you. Tell him to fuck off and let me deal with him if he won’t let it go or give him a roll in the hay and let him wander off. Either way, you have to sort this out.”

 

She…kind of doesn’t?

 

Carol ignores him, gets around him in private spaces, and teases him in public. The truth is, part of her enjoys tormenting him, deceiving him while she withholds the thing he wants.

 

She tells himself that it’s okay to taunt him this way. Carol believes what she said to Steve – Thomas only wants her because she won’t give in to him the way he assumed she would. To him, this is a game about plays and moves and scoring. She will protect herself any way she can. Tells herself: if he knew, he wouldn’t want me anyway. A fool, who chases after someone he doesn’t even want.

 

Inevitably, they are one day alone. Steve is sick and Carol is filing a series of overdue surveillance reports in the office.

 

Tom carries on with his own work for an hour or two before, out of the blue, telling her bluntly “I’d like to eat you out.”

 

She can’t help herself.

 

Carol laughs.

 

Just bursts out with wild, controllable laughter, with the edge of a cackle that Steve would recognize. The poor boy not only has no idea, but he’s so far off the mark that it’s honestly ridiculous. She nearly feels sorry for him.

 

He stands over her, frowning, crouching to examine her face, a hand on either of her knees to steady himself. “I don’t know why that’s funny. It was blunt, but you expect that from me.”

 

“There’s not a whole lot I don’t expect from you by now, Tom.”

 

“Then why don’t you…” Hands sliding up her stockings “…let me…” Black and skin tight against her legs “…taste…” Up under the chiffon dress, scarlet and vivid against her pale skin “…your pretty…” God, she wears a garter belt, he might be in love “…pretty… _oh_.”

 

Carol stares at him defiantly, her delicate body dwarfed by the size of the chair and the pool of red chiffon around her hips. Even through the gaff, what is there beneath the nylon and silk should be obvious – after all, it only hides the aesthetic appearance of a cock, not the cock itself.

 

“You were saying?” She sounds bored so that the contempt, the bitterness she feels welling in her mouth will not show. _Is this what you wanted, you spoiled little brat? Did you get your fucking wish now?_

 

“I don’t really need to ask if that’s a gun in your pocket, do I?” he asks, somewhat self-deprecating.

 

“I don’t think that’s necessary, no,” she says, leg shifting to kick him out of the way.

 

Thomas tilts his head up toward her. His smile is the one he gives when he’s thinking something dirty, tongue trapped between his eerily sharp teeth. “Would you like to shut me up, Carol?”

 

He can’t really be suggesting…?

 

He grips her hips roughly and pulls, angling her towards his mouth, moving to kiss her through the fabric. Sharply, Carol grabs a handful of his hair and yanks his head up. They stare each other straight in the eye and she says “You have to take the gaff off first. I can’t get hard and pretend I don’t have a dick at the same time – it feels like being punched in the balls. With a sledgehammer.”

 

Tom winces. “Duly noted, madam.” The garment falls to the floor and he eagerly pets at her inner thighs. “May I proceed?”

 

“By all means,” she says sarcastically, then realizes that he is still watching her face. Nervously, Carol grips the armrests. “…yes.”

 

Eyes glittering and tongue between his teeth. “Feel free to continue pulling, though.”

 

The sixth time, he has already graduated, and the Twins have been on the hunt for a serial killer among them which lasted eight straight weeks. He finds Steve blurry eyed and pacing the Twins’ apartment, murmuring to himself.

 

Empty pizza boxes are littered around the flat and Carol is passed out at the dining room table on top of piles of paperwork, wearing nothing but an oversized Star Wars t-shirt and a pair of leggings with a galaxy pattern in blues and purples. No underwear, no gaff, no bra, no make-up. Blond hair a tangled disaster. Like Steve, she has big, bruise-colored circles around her eyes and a pale waxy tone has taken over her skin. Pizza sauce under her fingernails. She's snoring just a little, her fingers twitching around an imaginary trigger that she pulls in her sleep.

 

“I’m taking her to bed,” he tells Steve quietly, ignoring his knowing smirk. Just let the little bastard smirk when Tom herds _him_ into bed, too. 

 

 _This_ , Thomas think, as he lifts her up and she whines angrily at being moved – which he of course ignores – _This is the real Carol Danvers_.

 

If Carol turns her head to hide her face in Tom's chest as he sets her down in the bed, nobody can see that but him. And if that makes him smile, well, nobody sees _that_ either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Loki a posh British pansexual twink with a low-key foot fetish and...honestly? I'm not even sorry. He gets to wake up with Carol fucking Danvers - don't feel bad for this man. (God knows that he doesn't.)
> 
> Also you may have noticed that Loki's experience with the Marvel Twins has some parallels to Natasha's journey with Team Delta.


	9. agent zero

March 31st, 2007

The first time they are given a personal assignment by the Head Spook, Carol and Steve are almost immediately fresh out of their graduation.

 

“Why don’t we still just call her ‘Arachnid’?” Steve asks quietly as they pass into the ‘dead zone’ of the Scourge operations offices in the Triskelion.

 

“Partly a matter of respect,” Ty answers, just as softly. “Partly for the anonymity. As hard as it can be for a high intensity member, the head has it hardest of all.”

 

Tandy nods, looking somber. “They live only from moment to moment – once they take the office, they are only ‘Head Spook’ until death do they part.”

 

“Can’t they retire?” Carol asks.

 

“They can.”

 

“But they don’t,” Steve guesses.

 

“Not usually, no,” Tandy agrees grimly. “In any case, the title always, _always_ refers to the current standing Head. Former Heads, deceased or retired, are spoken about by codename. I expect you both to behave yourselves – you’re not trainees anymore but your conduct will still reflect on Cloak and I.”

 

Steve and Carol respond in unison: “Yes, ma’am!”

 

The meeting was a formal one, which meant masks on and black clothing only. Carol’s mask was reminiscent of a doll, smooth white with painted on lips and sickly pink blush at the cheeks, while Steve had chosen a stark skull with the lower jaw missing. Fully dressed with their faces covered, they really did look like twins: blond and blue-eyed and of the same general height, it was rather difficult to tell whether they were both males, both females, or anything in between.

 

The reason for the formality of the meeting became immediately apparent: there is a young woman sitting in front of Head Spook’s chair. She is tall and lovely, with pale blond hair that curls around her shoulders and sharp, smart eyes – and she is wearing a jacket with a SHIELD logo patch over the left breast.

 

As the assembled Underworld file into the room around her, her face is a mask of studied, patient calm. Steve and Carol still aren’t sure what is going on until Head Spook says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please greet your new Agent Zero.”

 

Nobody says a word, their eyes fixed to the woman sitting in her chair.

 

The member of the Top Twenty that no one ever wanted to talk about was the agent zero. Agent Zero, like Head Spook, was not a person – it was a title. An agent selected from within the ranks of SHIELD, burdened with the purpose of reporting the suspicions and misdeeds of their fellow agent.

 

For a SHIELD agent, being named Agent Zero was the highest honor you could merit that no one – not even you – would ever know about until you held the title yourself. To be nominated was a sign of the Director’s unshakable faith in your loyalty and integrity. For the Scourge, it was dirty secret.

 

Agent Zero was not one of them, could not be allowed into their world the way a true member was – here, in the inner circle of the Underworld, they were a mere guest who passed through at the pleasure of the Head Spook, the ability to continue living only guaranteed by his or her goodwill.

 

The young woman sits straight and tall, her carriage proud. “Agent Barbara Morse, here to serve the Head Spook, ma’am. Call me Bobbi.”

 

“You don’t have a name. Here, you’re always Agent Zero,” Head Spook replies, “You do not exist, as we do not exist. Will the Marvel Twins please come forward?”

 

Steve and Carol glance at each other in unison before stepping forward together. Head Spook gives an approving nod – clearly these two have studied the guidebook on the Agent Zero section. “You will need an escort through the Underworld to provide you with access to tools and intel for your job. I think the Marvel Twins will serve you nicely. Try not to make their lives difficult – if you disobey the rules, they may become your judges, jury, and executioners.”

 

Bobbi is not exactly comfortable going to the Underworld, where the Scourge dwell. To access it, she has to text an unlisted number: devil face, heart emoji, bird emoji, and then wait in her office past midnight.

 

The Twins will appear on her floor, lead her to the elevator, blindfold her, and walk her to the Head’s office.

 

She talks to them because she has to, either to request items or materials or just because she could no longer stand the oppressive silence of their presence. Neither of them ever speaks to her, she knows neither their names nor the sounds of their voices – but she knows them by touch and the eerie, silent grace of their movements.

 

Privately in her mind, she calls them Death and Doll. She’s nearly certain that the skeleton twin – Death – is a male, and the china-doll twin – Doll – is a female, but they are so alike that it’s hard to be really sure.

 

Bobbi actually grows kind of fond of Death and Doll. They sit with her, sometimes for hours so that she can have access to surveillance tools, and even the blindfolding and the leading are done gently.

 

Doll even once saves her life, appearing out of nowhere in a tiny Slovakian village to stab another agent in the neck as he’s trying to hold Bobbi over a shard of glass in a broken window. Bobbi stares at her in shock, the agent bleeding out between them on the dirty snow-dusted floor before Doll gives a small bow – as though to say ‘you’re welcome, darling’ – and walks away.

 

She would never say that her becoming Agent Zero led to the ruin of her marriage to Lance, but it was certainly a factor. Lance felt she kept too many secrets from him that she was never fully honest with him. And this she knew in her heart of hearts, was absolutely correct.

 

She quits not because she dislikes the position or even because she particularly minds the Scourge ostracizing her – she knows that they must protect themselves, especially since she walks among the people they hunt every day. But there is a grain of truth in each one of Lance’s suspicions that Bobbi cannot deny, and the pressure is no longer sustainable.

 

A slightly different group of the Scourge are assembled when she hands in her resignation, but as always, Death and Doll are her constant companions. She turns toward them, knowing that this will be the last time she will see either of them. Feeling almost timid, Bobbi says, “May I have a hug, please?”

 

The Twins lock eyes with each other, Doll tilting her head at Death before both of them nod at her. Doll smells of something faintly sweet and there is a curious strength to her despite her small frame. When Bobbi abruptly feels herself tear up and sniffs hard, Doll gives her a few maternal pats on the back. Death, she discovers, is actually even smaller than he looks at first glance and when she pulls back, his slender hands clasp hers warmly, his leather gloves familiar and comforting after all these months.

 

Something firm is pressed into her palm and when she looks down, there is a lovely enamel pin in the shape of a bird. It’s a banded gray and black creature, with a fine face, large wings, and tiny beak.

 

Ha. A _mockingbird_.

 

Ten years later, she wears that same pin to a birthday party and Steve Rogers clasps her hands with his long, slender fingers. “Lovely pin, Bobbi.”

 

And Bobbi smiles back with a twinkle in her eye. “Thank you, an old friend gave it to me. I think he thought it was funny.”

 

Steve cocks his head. “No…I bet he thought it would suit you.”

 

\---

April 2015

Though it pained Steve, as Head Spook, to admit, the losses for the Scourge when HYDRA tried to take over the main SHIELD headquarters were heavy. He’d lost over twenty people in North America alone.

 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, none of these were his Top 20 except one: Agent Zero.

 

At the time of the attack, his current Agent Zero was Victoria Hand. Steve was especially sad to lose her – Victoria was shrewd, skilled, and almost ferociously competent at her job. Her escorts, a pair of childhood friends from West Africa called Coachwhip and Diamondback, had already been killed when part of the lower parking garages collapsed. Had Victoria’s Scourge escorts still been alive, Steve didn’t have any doubts that Ward wouldn’t have been able to shoot her point-blank.

 

In the chaos of the after, he was finally able to discuss this issue with Fury. Slowly, the Director says “I have someone in mind already. But of course, yours is the final say, Steven.”

 

They brief her appropriately and Fury leads her into a part of the executive floor she’s never seen. The room is quite bare and stark, lots of shiny chrome surfaces and cold dark wood. There is a private elevator in the corner, and at the very center of the room, with a small table set with three chairs, a silver tea service, and a white porcelain vase filled with white funeral lilies. Nothing else.

 

She isn’t nervous when Fury gestures for her to sit down to wait and leaves her there, but she has to admit that she is when figures of various shapes and sizes begin filing in the room around them. They are all masked and dressed in black.

 

The private elevator gives a slight, polite ‘ding’ and the doors slowly open to reveal a small shape standing between two other figures dressed in masks.

 

Margaret Carter stands abruptly from her seat, her cup of tea falling from the table to shatter all over the floor. She stares at her friend, frozen in horrified surprise, before she can manage to choke out “ _Steve_?”

 

Standing at his left side is a tall man with the mask of a grinning wolf and on his right is a tiny woman with the mask of a china doll. Steve stares back at her with an unrecognizable calm. Quietly, to the man in the wolf’s mask, Steve says “Please get Agent Carter another cup of tea, Fenrir. She takes milk and one sugar.”

 

Smoothly the man begins obeying his order, the woman remaining at his elbow, silent and waiting. Another woman in a beautiful butterfly mask silently cleans up the shards and the puddle of tea.

 

Sitting in the only other available chair, Steve pours himself a cup, his hands deftly stirring without clanging against the delicate china.

 

“But I’m-I’m here to meet…”

 

Steve, tea cup raised to his face, stares back at her with brows raised, so pointed that her voice dies in her throat. Setting the cup back into its saucer with a neat ‘clink’, he says “You are here because Director Fury recommended you highly, and I believe you to be a moral, ethical, honorable, and reliable person.”

 

Feeling lost and uncharacteristically helpless, Peggy says “Steve…”

 

His gaze is calculated and cool. Remote. Utterly alien, and utterly terrifying. “There is no Steve. My name is Head Spook and that is what you will call me, Agent Zero. Inside this room, I am Head Spook and you are Agent Zero and what is outside this room does not exist.”

 

“Al-alright,” she says, sitting slowly as she tries to calm her frantic heart. Fenrir, the man in the wolf’s mask, sits a fresh cup in front of her and she murmurs an automatic “Thank you.”

 

She receives a blank stare in return.

 

Almost gently, Steve gestures to the figures around them and says “They aren’t going to answer you, Agent Zero. They aren’t allowed. You’ll need to have an escort to be allowed access to any tools or intel I have in the Underworld. Fenrir is your escort and he’ll make sure you receive whatever you need.” More seriously he says “I will understand if our past conflicts with your ability to do this. You were the first choice, but I’m sure Director Fury has other recommendations.”

 

Peggy sets her jaw. “No. I’ll do it. Head Spook.”

 

She wonders for a moment if the Steve Rogers that she knows s really capable of killing someone and immediately answers her own question: yes. Yes, if Steve thought that was the morally right thing to do, he would do it swiftly and without any concern or remorse.

 

Steve’s eyes warm slightly and he gives a small nod. “Then I’ll congratulate you on the promotion, Agent Zero.”

 

There is a hint of the man she knows there. Perhaps it is a façade, but in that moment it’s what Peggy needs.

 

(It is not a façade, Steve still isn’t a good liar. But she to admit, his compartmentalization is flawless.)


	10. dire magicks and odd meetings, part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I didn't mean for this to be the next chapter, but Natasha was very insistent that this was her part of the story. I am not dumb enough to attempt arguing with the scary Russian woman.

April 2020

Having acquired the information Steve has in his hands, he is unsure what to do next. He cannot just present them with the packet – no one deserves a shock like that with no warning, especially not some of the people he’s come to call his closest friends. Steve is also reluctant to present it as a gift, because while they may see it as one, he does not.

 

To give this a privilege of Steve’s, not a gift to them.

 

It is shortly after he and Bucky are wed that it truly draws his attention.

 

“Natasha…isn’t that kind of an unusual name?” Steve says, looking over their marriage certificate.

 

“Natalia or Romanova?” Natasha asks, amused. “Because either way, the answer is definitely not, no. Natalia is relatively common, and Romanov is one of the most famous names in Russia – especially to an American.”

 

“No, I meant the…what to do call the way you put the middle name? It’s the same as your father’s?”

 

“It’s called a patronymic, and no, it’s not exactly the same,” she says with thoughtful slowness. “For a girl, it’s the father’s name with - _ovna_ attached. For a boy, it’s the father’s name plus - _ovich_. In Russia, your middle name would not be ‘Grant’. Instead, you’d be _Stepan Osipovich_. Steven, the son of Joseph.”

 

“Natalia Al-Ali-”

 

“Alianovna,” she says, taking mercy on Steve. “Natasha, the daughter of Alian.”

 

Steve repeats “Alian. Alian – that doesn’t really sound very Russian.”

 

At that, Natasha looks down at her hands. “It isn’t, really. I had…a different name growing up. I was adopted, so I didn’t actually know the names of either of my birth parents.”

 

“Oh.” Steve brows drew together. “Did you make up your own name, then?”

 

“No, I was able to find out about them eventually. Coulson helped, actually. He used my adoption information to find their names. Alian and Illyana Romanov.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t find much of anything else, though. I know that I was born in Volgograd, and that they were killed during the Yeltsin riots in the nineties. I don’t-I don’t know what their voices sounded like, or even what they looked like.”

 

Steve makes a soft noise of sympathy. “You don’t have any photographs?”

 

“No, none were kept on file.” She chews her lip and finally says “Because of the patronymics, I know that my father’s father was called Vasiliy and my mother’s father was Pyotr, but I don’t know even know her maiden name, so that doesn’t do me any good.”

 

Later that night, Steve snuggles next to Bucky, rubbing absently at his mouth. Alian…it was an unusual name, which is why it seems to stick around in his mind so determinedly.

 

Bucky kisses his pale golden head. “What has you thinking so hard, _stea_?”

 

Steve smiles and shakes his head, pressing his mouth to the underside of Bucky’s jaw. “Just something Natasha and I were talking about earlier today.”

 

He doesn’t just argue – Steve fights, he yells, he has screaming debates with Carol about what he wants. Her defense is sound: they do not give their secrets lightly and it is what protects them. The only thing that protects them.

 

But Steve can’t leave it this way.

 

Bucky has never given him any specifics about Natasha’s childhood, but Steve was their personal monitor for months before he retired. He’s checked her psych evaluations and he knows the ways in which she was grievously wronged by the people who should have loved and cared for her.

 

This, to his mind, was a wrong that Steve and every Head Spook before him helped to commit, because they failed to take responsibility when they should have. Because they lacked the intellectual curiosity and basic thoughtfulness to make sure someone they should have overseen was being properly taken care of. He cannot change the past, he cannot stop Lukin from doing what he did, or the way she was raised. He cannot give Natasha her parents back.

 

But he can give her _something_.

 

He can offer the only thing he has, the only thing he has sworn on his honor and his life never to give.

 

The truth.

\---

“We’re going on a drive today,” he finally tells the three of them. “I want to show you something.”

 

They have to go to the SHIELD office in Manhattan first. The Head Spook and his or her staff are always given a space in any SHIELD facility, though of course none of the agents are aware of this. Inasmuch as he is aware, the Head Spook will not actually be present for this meeting.

 

“Where are we going?” Clint asks quietly, reverently, as though he can sense the importance of this voyage.

 

Steve, unable to answer aloud in an unsecure location, simply shakes his head and instructs the elevator to take them to the basement floor, parking garage level. They have no idea what they should be expecting.

 

On second thought, they probably should have predicted that Carol would be standing there, leaning against a BMW with her ankles elegantly crossed in her purple suede boots. Steve mutters “You always did have great taste in shoes.”

 

“I still can’t believe I’ve let you talk me into doing this,” she sighs, shaking her head. She holds out her hand, three black blindfolds draped over her palm. “Please don’t make me put these on you myself.”

 

Dutifully, the three of them apply the blindfolds, being smart enough to guess what kind of business this is about even if none of them can guess at the specifics. Natasha quickly realizes that Steve is the one leading her back to the elevator. She assumed that Carol would be leading her and Clint. Instead, she can hear her leading the two other men behind them.

 

The trip on the elevator feels long. When they arrive, and Steve allows them to take off their blindfolds, the elevator opens on almost complete darkness. The corridor is lined with people.

 

No, not people.

 

The Scourge.

 

They are each, no matter their size or gender, dressed in black from head to toe, masks of different appearances covering their faces. And each and every one of those faces is turned towards them.

 

A male voice down at the very end of the corridor whispers “Captain”

 

And the others murmur a chorus of “Captain”, “Captain!”, “The Captain”.  One by one, they bow as Steve, still holding Natasha’s hand, makes his way to the end of the corridor.

 

“You’re all being very melodramatic,” Carol murmurs, but she sounds far too affectionate for that to be a criticism.

 

The path to the end of the hallway is taken in hushed silence, the kneeling members of the Underworld on either side of them tracking their progress with their watchful eyes.

 

The room is much like the other rooms reserved for the Scourge – stark and mostly bare, done in black and white. Unlike most business done with outsiders though, Steve has not taken them to the conference room. This is the Head’s office.

 

The only pieces of furniture are four chairs – the one behind the Head’s desk and three arranged in front of the display screen where (in a normal office) there would be windows. The only decoration in this room is a chrome vase on the desk, filled with white tulips.

 

He was correct. The Head Spook is not in attendance at the Manhattan office.

 

Sitting at the Head’s desk, Carol leans back in the chair. “I’m just here to play guardian and guarantee that no lines are crossed. This is your show, Steve.” From the desk drawer, she hands him a tablet and says, “I’m assuming you still know what to do with one of these.”

 

With the familiar StarkPad in his hands, Steve murmurs “Request Master Access for User: Steven Grant Rogers.”

 

The pad gives three soft beeps before replying: “Provisional Access Granted to Steven Grant Rogers: All files and documentation created beyond October 24th, 2016 will be locked to this User.”

 

And Steve says, “Connect to display. Access profile: Belinski, Nikolay Petrovich.”

 

The main screens in front of them display the photograph of a large blond man with pale, frosty eyes.

 

Letter over his picture display his name, first in Cyrillic and then with a Roman alphabet, then beneath those in bold letters, what the others assume to be his codename:

Николай Петрович Белинский  
Nikolay Petrovich Belinski  
COLOSSUS

 

Confused, Clint says “Who is that?”

 

“That,” Steve says quietly “Is Natasha’s maternal uncle.”

 

They stare open-mouthed as the screen flips over and Natasha gasps loudly at the wealth of information.

 

Belinski, Nikolay Petrovich

COLOSSUS

Date of Birth: April 30th, 1960

Birthplace: Malka, Kamchatka Krai, Russia

Mother: Ksenia Viktorovna Morozova

Father: Pyotr Alexeyevich Belinski

Height: 6’3”

Weight 265 lbs

Hair: Blond

Eyes: Grey

Race: Caucasian

I: _Shadowcat_

T: _Echo_

Start: March 3rd, 1987

Death: July 22th, 1992

Single bullet wound to the back of the head at long range suggesting a sniper. Cover likely compromised. _(See additional file notes_.)

 

“That’s my uncle!” Natasha breathes.

 

“That’s your uncle,” Clint agrees, squeezing her arm gently.

 

“Can I…can I see him again?” she whispers. “I just…I’d really like to see his face.”

 

“Of course.” Steve uses the tablet to flip back to Nikolay’s face. He is a large man with a square, heavy jaw and – Natasha is stunned to note – her own nose. Larger and wider than her own, but that nose is the exact same shape as her own. Even more quietly, Steve asks “Would you like to see your father, Natasha?”

 

She turns quickly in the seat to stare at him “My…my…”

 

He nods. “That was what originally caught my attention, you know. Alian. I knew I’d heard that name somewhere. Access profile: Romanov, Alian Vasilyevich.”

 

Natasha inhales so sharply she gets light-headed.

 

He is a man of angles and not curves. Like Nikolay, when the picture was taken, he chose to stare straight at the camera, facing it head-on like he is staring down the barrel of a gun.

 

A tattoo just barely visible at the side of his neck makes her wonder if he was sent to prison – not for murder, she isn’t worried about that. He would never be let into the Scourge if he’d murdered someone in cold blood. His chin-length auburn hair reminds Natasha sweetly, achingly of James, but that isn’t the only reason he does.

 

Alian Romanov has the look of an animal – one that was starved, beaten, and left out in the wilderness to die. A wild, haunted stare as his hooded eyes gaze back at her that has Natasha suddenly wrapping her arms around James, even as her eyes can’t leave her father’s face. She is crying without being aware of it. “I’m here, shhh, it’s alright.”

 

Hollowed-out cheeks made the arches of his cheekbones carve severe slashes across either side of his face and gave his jade green eyes an appearance that’s almost feverish in its intensity. Savage and raw, like cliffs of stone beaten down by the relentless force of the sea. There is an undeniable presence to his bearing, but very little beauty in him.

 

And none of this matters, because Natasha loves him – instantly, fully, painfully, and with her whole self – the moment she lays eyes on him. Alian is a feral-looking creature, but he is hers and hers alone.

 

It’s then that she finally notices the words that have stamped themselves across his picture.

 

Альян Васильевич Романов  
Alian Vasilyevich Romanov  
DIRE WOLF

 

After many long moments, Steve asks “Are you ready to see more?”

 

Quickly wiping her eyes so that she will be able to read his file, Natasha says “Yes, I’m ready.”

 

Name: Romanov, Alian Vasilyevich

DIRE WOLF

Date of Birth: December 11th, 1962

Birthplace: Makhachkala, Dagestan, Russia

Mother: Darya Borayeva Murat

Father: Vasiliy Antonovich Romanov

Height: 5’10”

Weight: 153 lbs

Hair: Auburn

Eyes: Green

Race: Caucasian, Arabic

I: _Wild Thing_

T: _Vanguard_

Start: February 19th, 1984

Deceased: October 1st, 1993

[REDACTED]

[REDACTED]

_Access restricted by DP Sabra. Please submit information request to Head Spook._

 

Softly, reverently, Steve says “I knew that his name sounded strangely familiar, but around here, we know him only as ‘Dire Wolf’. Classified information aside, I can tell you without exaggeration that the world as we know it today would not exist without him. Long before any of us were born, we discovered that several countries were attempting the creation of Super Soldiers – advanced humans that were supposed to be faster, stronger, and smarter than ordinary people. All it ever amounted to was essentially sanctioned torture and involuntary human experimentation. Russia was one of those countries and Alian Romanov is the reason that program no longer exists.”

 

Filled with horror, Bucky speaks before he has a chance to catch the words in his mouth “Oh god, he was one of the experiment subjects, wasn’t he?”

 

“Classified,” Steve reminds him gently.

 

“What is…” Clint squints. “What is ‘I’ and ‘T’?”

 

“That would be ‘I’ for ‘instructor’,” Steve answers. “And ‘T’ for trainees. Your father was trained by Wild Thing, which means he belonged to Wolverine’s line – an original member of the Underworld, going back to World War II. I would have loved to let you meet Vanguard because I’m told he was…rather devoted to Alian, but I’m afraid…I’m afraid he predeceased him.”

 

“Natasha, would you like to see his entrance interview?” Carol asks kindly. “Head Spook has given us permission for you to view the footage.”

 

White-faced, Natasha whispers “There’s a video? Yes! Yes, of course I would.”

 

Alian on camera is even more daunting than Alian in pictures. The lighting of the room flashes the bright coppery highlights in the dull red of his lank hair and he leans back in the chair, arms crossed, assessing the whole room with a shrewd eye.

 

The interviewer is kept out of the line of the camera, but his voice is male and very clearly Australian. “May I call you Mr. Romanov? Is that acceptable?” Alian gives a short wave of the hand and a jerk of the head that the interviewer takes for agreement. “Mr. Romanov, I understand that you speak and understand English pretty well, but for the record would you like a translator provided for you?”

 

“That will not be necessary,” Alian replies in the raspy voice of a person who might eat nails and glass for breakfast. His English is easily understandable, but like most Slavic speakers, he tends to place emphasis on the wrong syllables.

 

“Can you tell me about yourself, Mr. Romanov?”

 

“There is very little to tell,” he says, guarded and closed.

 

“Your background? Your last profession? Your family and where you grew up?”

 

“I was an orphan, sir,” he says, still closed off. “I’m sure you know what that’s like in my country. As for my profession…” He pulls down the collar of his shirt, revealing the head of a grinning wolf. “I think your people are smart enough to know what that means.”

 

The Australian makes a vague hum of agreement. “I take it that means it was a government official you stole from, then? I wouldn’t expect you to be out of prison so soon. That’s a very interesting tattoo across your knuckles. What does…oh-em-why-tee mean?”

 

“ _Omut,”_ Alian answers, flexing his left hand instinctively. “Short for _ot menya uiti trudno_.” He smiles grimly. “It means that I very often find what I’m looking for.”

 

That, Natasha knows, is not exactly true. _Omut,_ the shortened form literally meant ‘deep pool’ or ‘sinkhole’. The long form was something a little more sinister -  _it’s hard to get away from me._

 

The Australian asks in the next breath what she is wondering. “Are you a Vor, Mr. Romanov?”

 

“No.” He seems almost amused for the first time during their conversation. “I gave these to myself. And I wouldn’t have gotten out of prison because I have not been caught. A sly fox doesn’t have to chew it’s leg off, if you understand me.”

 

“A very good policy,” the Australian agrees. “But if you’ve never been caught, why did you tattoo yourself?”

 

“I did not want people to think that I am…” He hesitates. “In English, you say ‘a sucker’, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“If they think I’m sucker, I play fair and give them warning first.” He shrugs. “If they don’t believe, it’s their own blame.”

 

He flexes his left hand again, ‘sinkhole’ permanently etched over his prominent knuckles.

 

Bucky has the feeling that the people who wrong Alian don’t often live to regret it – much like his daughter.

 

“Have you ever committed an offence you believe to me morally wrong – criminal or otherwise?”

 

At this, Alian leans back and stares at the ceiling, his jaw flexing, as though he is chawing on the question. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Not the stealing – I do not believe my crime is equal to the crimes of the man I stole from and I have no guilt. I hurt no one to acquire it , and his wealth has no meaning to him. But yes, I have…offended against…perhaps you’d say ‘god’? My fellow man?”

 

“And you believed your actions to be wrong?”

 

He nods.

 

“Then why did you commit them, Mr. Romanov?”

 

“Because I had no better choices,” Alian admits.

 

“Like the stealing?”

 

“No, I did that because I wanted to – because it proved that I could,” he says thoughtfully. More chewing on his words. “There was a girl who ran the-the office of…hm…licensing, I think? I…” He stared down at his hands. “If she didn’t do what I ask for, I’d-”

 

Chew. Chew. Chew. Chews all those words. Alian looks ashamed of himself and Natasha, feeling sick, whispers “Oh my god, no.”

 

The Australian, sounding startled, says “Dear god, you didn’t actually _attack_ this girl, did you?”

 

“I did not. I would not.” Alian says, staring at his knuckles. “But she didn’t know that. Her face…her face was like the snows at Magadan. I wanted her afraid of me, so that I would get what I need. But I wish…that I’d had another way.”

 

“So why did you do it?”

 

His eyes flicker to the interviewer, but it looks as though he stares straight into the camera, and they are _boiling._ “There is little a father would not do for his child.”

 

Natasha’s eyes widened. Alian’s interview would’ve happened sometime during the beginning of 1984 – seven and a half years before her birth. Did she have a sibling after all?

 

“You have a wife and child, Mr. Romanov?”

 

“A son. Kirill. His mother was ill…in her mind,” Alian clarifies. Natasha’s heart pounds, seems to slam up against her ribs. A brother. A brother. “We were young, and she was…she loved him, but that is…sometimes not enough. We were not married, but I could not leave him with her. She was…better, when she didn’t have to worry over him.”

 

“You did not list a dependent in your application. You’ll need to resubmit it.”

 

“That will not be necessary,” he says, repeating his words at the start of the interview. Alian stares at the table, swallows hard. His green eyes shine, sad and glassy. It’s the most emotion he’s shown the whole time, and it still looks like he’s trying to chew the emotion and swallow it down. “Is there an English word for watching the light leave your child’s eyes? Because I feel that way…all the time.”

 

The interview tape cuts out. Steve squeezes Natasha’s hand tightly. She is too numb to cry but she clutches onto James, Clint pressed to her back. “I looked for Kirill’s records,” Steve tells her. “I didn’t want you to wonder about him.”

 

She fists her hands in James’ shirt and blinks her. Like her father, Steve can almost see her trying to choke her sorrow down into manageable pieces. “What happened to him?”

 

“Pneumonia,” Carol says quietly. “He caught pneumonia and hospitalization in the area was…inadequate. Alian tried to bribe and coerce his way into better papers – papers that would name him as a government official so that Kirill would be transferred into a top-quality facility. Alian succeeded, but by then it was too late. Kirill was four years old.”

 

Steve strokes her hair and says, “Shall we meet Illyana now?”

 

“M-mother? My mother was here?”

 

“It seems that Nikolay and Illyana were mostly inseparable,” Steve admits. “Yeah, she was here. Access profile: Belinskaya, Illyana Petrovna.”

 

Clint inhales sharply. Unlike the men in Natasha’s family, Illyana smiles for the camera and now he knows where Natasha’s smile comes from. It’s nearly a smirk, a little flirty and a lot dangerous.

 

If he were ever asked to give a description of what an archetypal Russian woman looked like, it would probably match Illyana Belinskaya perfectly. Blonde, ivory skin, pale eyes, full lips, drop-dead gorgeous. She looked like she could skin you alive with a glance or steal your heart at twenty paces.

 

Natasha might have Alian’s coloring, but her features belong mostly to Illyana, especially that sly smile.

 

The identification for her photo phased in:

Ильяна Петровна Белинская  
Illyana Petrovna Belinskaya  
MAGIK

 

“Magik?” Bucky repeats. “Why Magik?”

 

“Because, according to Nightcrawler, and I quote, ‘she’s a fuckin’ sorceress, ladies and gentlemen’, unquote,” Carol says dryly. “Nightcrawler was…a special soul, but I think Illyana found him…entertaining.”

 

They flip her page to the quick data.

 

Name: Belinskaya, Illyana Petrovna

MAGIK

Date of Birth: October 3rd, 1970

Birthplace: Yelizovo, Kamchatka Krai, Russia

Mother: Ksenia Viktorovna Morozova

Father: Pyotr Alexeyevich Belinski

Height: 5’0”

Weight: 106 lbs

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Gray

Race: Caucasian

I: _Nightcrawler_

T: _Wolfsbane_

Start: March 3rd, 1987

Deceased: October 1st, 1993

[REDACTED]

[REDACTED]

_Access restricted by DP Sabra. Please submit information request to Head Spook._

 

“Does she have an interview, too?”

 

“Yes, it’s a joint interview with her brother,” Steve murmurs. “That’s why I didn’t show it to you earlier.”

 

The interviewer is a woman this time, who speaks with a Ukrainian accent. “Your submission tells me that you were a soldier in the Soviet Armed Forces,” the Ukrainian says slowly. She seems to be trying to lead Nikolay into a statement, but all she gets is a blank stare. “What I guess I’m trying to ask, Mr. Belinski, is: why? Why SHIELD? Why the Underworld? You could’ve gone into the KGB. MI6 would leap at the chance to take you. So why us?”

 

Nikolay cocks his head at his sister, a full decade younger than himself. His question to Illyana makes Team Delta all laugh. “ _My delayem vid chto ya glavnyy_?”

 

_Do we pretend that I am in charge?_

 

Even the Ukrainian is amused. “Alright, Miss Belinskaya – why do you and your brother wish to come into the Underworld?”

 

Illyana sits with hands neatly folded in front of her. Her accent is heavier than Alian’s, but still understandable. “We love our country, the dirt and the people who live on it. But we do not love the great buildings and the people who work in them.”

 

She glances at the interviewer from beneath her lashes. “If Kolya hit me,” she says, gesturing at her brother. “Nobody would think that bad. If I get husband, I must hope that he will be kind – if he is not, no one would help me. If he hit me, hit my child, perhaps, I would be…be…”

 

“Powerless,” Nikolay finishes for her softly. “ _Bessil’nyy_.”

 

“ _Da_ ,” she agrees sadly. “If I am ah… _iznasilovannaya?_ ”

 

“Sexually assaulted,” the Ukrainian provides helpfully.

 

“Yes, and the man is not wealthy, perhaps he may pay-pay…”

 

“Fines?”

 

“Yes, a small one. But if he wealthy, he is not punished and I would be blamed.” Illyana continues “If I am…with child, because of this, I must…must keep it. No matter what was done to me.”

 

There is a creaking sound and she looks down to see that Nikolay’s grip on the edge of the table has actually bent the metal. Concerned, Illyana says “Kolya…”

 

“In the army, I was expected to watch young men being assaulted and _participate_. To torment my fellow soldiers and enjoy myself. I did not want to join, but there was little else for me to do. My country wants things from me I cannot give without…without making a monster of myself, but offers my sister no protection.”

 

“So, you wish to escape your situation in Russia?”

 

“No,” Illyana says with a stubborn jut to her chin. “To change it.”

 

The interview cuts off and Carol, with an apologetic grimace, says "I'm afraid they went into classified information about Nikolay's career with the Soviets, so there isn't as much to see." 

 

"I don't know about that," Natasha says, staring distantly at the screen. "There was...a lot of things packed in a very small amount of space." 

 

“She was…a lot younger than Alian,” Bucky observes slowly as the screen flips back to her photograph. Like Steve and Carol, Illyana would've been recruited before she was even a legal adult. While Steve couldn't really tell him about, he'd gotten the impression that wasn't generally seen as a good sign for their mental state. At least, he supposed, Illyana would've had her big brother with her for it. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but he had quite a heavy past and she was still only nineteen when they got married."

 

Clint, not quite defensive, says "Maybe it runs in the family."

 

Natasha's eyes can't leave her mother's face, young and smiling forever. It's hard to see her and know that she will now always be older than her mother was. Natasha is now older than Nikolay was in that interview. Blindly, she reaches for Clint's hand and immediately he catches her fingers. "Maybe she married the first man to see past her face." 

 

"I wouldn't call her face a hardship."

 

"Exactly." Natasha says quietly. "Illyana wanted to be treated as a human being, not her husband's property - that was probably a pretty unpopular opinion. A beautiful woman must be beautiful all the time, anything else would be disappointing." Resting her head on Clint's shoulder, she adds "Maybe my father liked feminists and unpopular opinion."

 

Alian seemed like a man who would eat him for breakfast for dating his daughter and Clint would've been honored to be chewed up and spit out. Illyana though, Illyana would've been the one to really watch out for - he had a feeling Natasha's rejected boyfriends would've ended up in dark hole in Siberian, courtesy of Uncle Kolya.

 

Clint is terribly sad he will never get to meet them.

 

He kisses Natasha's hair. "He does seem pretty smart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're gonna spend more time with Nat's parents and lost family members later on


	11. the kids are(n't) alright, part i

Steve has to admit that a great deal of his success in dealing with Tony Stark was actually due to training Tom, learning how to deal with that sort of personality, to steer them the way he wanted without resorting to outright manipulation – or worse, base flattery.

 

Steve refused to become yet another Yes Man in their lives, and now he knew how to deal with someone who was materially spoiled while also being emotionally starved. Steve also knew that method of parenting was a fantastic way to create a sociopath, but luckily, he’d met both Tony and Tom while they were still young enough to keep searching for that sense of approval from a male father figure.

 

Apparently being a bit of an asshole and giving out commands counted for some value of ‘father figure’. Steve, who’d never known his father, found this kind of fucked up, but hey he was here to help not to judge.

 

He cannot honestly say that it was an accident on the day that they met. It was something more than a coincidence and something less than a staged meeting.

 

September 27th, 2009

Howard had brought him to the Underworld, and Steve did feel…not an obligation to him, but he certainly owed him a favor or two. That first time, it even felt innocent, the simple request of a concerned father who wanted to make sure that his son was doing alright at school.

 

Anthony, the target of sycophants and bullies alike, was four years the junior of even his youngest classmates at school and was ill prepared for the experience of college at fourteen. Steve on the other hand was a sophomore at the nearby Massachusetts College of Art and Design – Howard hinted that he had connections at MIT that he’d be happy to tap into for Steve’s sake. Steve had no affinity for the STEM fields and mentally, he noted that Howard had not offered the same for Carol, who wanted to go into engineering and ended up joining the Air Force to reach her goals.

 

It was lucky Steve found him when he did – either it was a hazing ritual or the group of six juniors thought that Tony would enjoy being force-fed an amount of Pabst Blue Ribbon that no living thing should rightfully be subjected to.

 

_Jesus, at least give the kid something decent!_

 

Treatment such as this would’ve been bad enough for an ordinary freshman, but Tony was only fourteen years old.

 

As small as Steve is, when you punch someone in the kidneys enough times, they start to get the idea that you aren’t pleased with them, even if they are enormous meatheads with shit for brains. He does end up with two black eyes and one bruised rib for his efforts, but he knows he gave nearly as good as he got.

 

Steve prefers stealth to brute force but when he needs to fight face-to-face he always does it hard and dirty – at least two of them will be pissing blood for the next week and another will need oral surgery before the other three gathered together enough wits to realize that the tiny, crazed creature they were fighting wasn’t going to be brought down by anything short of a broken back.

 

Tony expresses his gratitude with…less maturity than Steve would like. To his credit, when Tony realized the juniors were trying to beat the shit out of a five-foot-four asthmatic, he did try to help out, but he was staggering drunk and pissed off that the asthmatic actually had more success in helping him than he’d had in trying to help himself.

 

Tony eyes his pale, scrawny savior, heavily bruised and clutching his aching ribs, and barks out a mean, harsh laugh. “What do you think you’re doing, _Tinker Bell_? You’re barely big enough to take care of yourself! Stick to fights with people your own size…like a chihuahua, maybe.”

 

“I’m not Tinker Bell any more than you’re Snow White,” Steve says, rolling his eyes and walking away. He’s had people get mad at him for defending them before, by people at lot older than fourteen, so he’s not about to argue with a frightened child about acting like a spoiled brat.

 

He reports to Howard that Tony may be having a little trouble being the youngest among his classmates and doesn’t bother thinking about it again. Steve’s got real work to do and more serious crimes to investigate.

 

Because he does keep up with the news, Steve sometimes sees Tony in the paper in less-than-ideal stories. The Stark Industries wild child strikes again! All night orgies! Stark Junior cocaine habit! It occurs to him that either Howard did not listen to his advice that perhaps college could wait until Tony was older or simply did not care that his son was struggling.

 

Steve was enough of a cynic to place his bets on both, but he simply did not have the time and resources to spend on Anthony Stark right now, especially when Tony clearly did not want his help.

 

Howard was still Howard though, so he forced Steve’s hand.

 

The Scourge generally come in two flavors: the mentally ill, disabled, disadvantaged, or in some way abused or the already rich and well connected who could serve as kind of watchdogs for the Underworld.

 

The problem with the first group was that they tended to have tragically short life expectancies, especially if they choose not to retire after the first four or five years, and the problem with the second group was that unless their power or fortune took a turn for the worse, they very often grew to be more of a liability than a valuable resource for the Scourge.

 

This was indeed the case for Howard Stark.

 

Steve did not become the Head Spook until January in 2011, but Howard Stark forcibly resigned from the Scourge in May of 2010. By then the Marvel Twins had been named Third Ghost and they both strongly advised Jessica to cut Howard (and Stark Industries) off from the Underworld.

 

SI’s international interests and ever-growing influence meant that Howard’s potential ability to be compromised was vastly outgrowing his usefulness and unlike other members, he was not financially dependent on them.

 

Howard did not enjoy being told that he would resign.

 

July 28th, 2013

Steve is accustomed to being overlooked or ignored in everyday life, by people who don’t know who and what he really is. This is expected. Necessary. Frankly, highly useful. In everyday life, people often judge him as powerless or decide that he can be easily ordered around which is a whole lot more irritating and something he takes a whole lot less graciously.

 

He is not accustomed to being treated this way by people who _do_ know what he is and Steve (as Thomas can readily attest) is even less generous to those of their world who judge him to be inferior and inconsequential. They are the Scourge of the Underworld – they are chosen for their harmless exteriors, and if one of their own are not smart enough to look beyond the obvious, Steve will happily educate them on their willful ignorance.

 

Howard Stark always seemed to just skirt around the edge of the line on this treatment. He recruited Steve, and for some reason, this seemed to give him the idea that Steve owed him some kind of loyalty, which completely disregarded the fact that Steve outranked him within his second year. Howard’s position in the Underworld was highly valued, but it didn’t automatically lend him a seat in the Head’s inner circle on the gang of twenty. Only skill and hard work could do that, and as far as he was aware, Howard had never made it.

 

This why Steve is highly displeased by Howard – now three years retired with the other members of the Underworld distancing themselves from him – summoning him to his side as though Steve is his butler or personal assistant. Now Head Spook for two years, Steve has no patience for Howard’s demanding and overbearing attitude. Clearly, he labors under several mistaken beliefs and Steve intends to correct that for him.

 

Howard had requested – demanded – a meeting in the near future and Steve would oblige, but had not responded with a date. He intends to illustrate his point _vividly_.

 

Steve always was rather good at visuals.

 

“Sit down, Howard.”

 

The man curses, scotch splashing down the front of his designer suit as he jumps with surprise. He whirls around to find Steve Rogers sitting in his dining room, idly painting a watercolor portrait of the neatly set table in front of him.

 

“How in god’s name did you get in my house?!” he demands.

 

Steve glances at him from over his shoulder, brow raised with such disdain that he does not need to say a word to convey how stupid that question is. Swirling his brush through pigment, he pays painstaking attention to the details of the floral tablecloth. “So, you would like me to spy on your son.”

 

Carol often said that Steve possessed roughly the same level of subtlety as a sledgehammer. This, she conceded, wasn’t always a bad thing.

 

Jaw clenched at Steve’s sheer impudence, Howard takes a large swallow of the scotch before sitting heavily in a chair, earnestly saying “I’m just beginning to worry, that’s all. Anthony is extremely talented but sometimes I wonder about his priorities. His lifestyle.”

 

The problem with this solemn appeal was that Steve had already read between the lines of the letter and he read the newspapers. If Howard were honestly worried about Tony, he’d have mentioned something three years ago, the first time the boy had been sent to the hospital after combining coke and Jager in interesting ways. Steve was also close to Peggy Carter and this combination of nuance allowed insight to what was really happening here.

 

Tony Stark was growing up, and he was beginning to realize that firstly, his quest to please his father was destined for failure because the father was simply not satisfied by anything he did. And secondly, Tony Stark was beginning to be – not sober, he wasn’t ready for that yet – but he was waking up and seeing the way his father and godfather had shaped the world and he was starting to wonder if he actually liked what he saw.

 

Tony was beginning to question the way his father conducted his business and that was crossing the line for Howard. Not the clear mental health problems and addiction issues, not his promiscuous and risk-taking behavior. No, questioning the ethics of building and selling weapons of mass destruction was Howard’s final breaking point.

 

Steve sighs, watching Howard’s face out of the corner of his eye as he begins to delicately paint drops of nonexistent blood onto the tablecloth. “Here is what we are going to do,” he says calmly, setting down the brush to admire his work. “Because you are an old acquaintance of mine, Howard, I am going to pretend that this absolutely ridiculous conversation never happened, and you are going to pretend to have the courtesy not to summon me like a common lackey.”

 

Howard seems about to say something as Steve flicks out his pocket knife in his gloved hands and begins cutting and coring an apple into slices with conspicuous care. Meeting his eyes, Steve quietly, dangerously, adds “There are few things I enjoy less than having my time wasted, Howard.”

 

Filled with quiet rage, Howard replies “I don’t care if you’re in the department or not – you can’t just threaten me in my own home! I have rights and if I’ve committed no crime, you are still bound to the laws of the land.”

 

“I haven’t threatened you,” Steve says, chewing his precise slices of apple. “But I know you, Howard. So I need to tell you…I’m not threatening you. She is.”

 

“Hi, Howard,” Carol purrs, making him jump again. “We both know that you’re a vindictive shithead, so I’m obligated to warn you beforehand that if Steve ends up kicking the bucket under mysterious circumstances, there isn’t a place you can hide, Howard. No where you’ll ever be able to go where you can’t be found. You know who we are, so you can go ahead and blab our little secret – but violating your NDA might even bankrupt Stark Industries, and the entire Underworld will begin hunting you like rabbit.”

 

Silently putting his knife away, Steve sighs again and says “Let me give you some friendly advice, for old time’s sake. Enjoy your retirement. Take up a hobby. Maybe do some traveling. Get to know your son better. And Howard: don’t call me.”

 

Tony introduces them at a company party in the summer. “Pops, this is my friend Steve. He used to date Peggy in college.”

 

Steve smiles, a genuine and friendly expression more for Tony’s benefit than Howard’s. “Steve Rogers,” he says, shaking his hand. “I wasn’t dumb enough to dump her, I promise.”

 

Howard did not call him again, and by the time the New Year rolled around, he was in a casket and Steve was standing at Tony’s side during the funeral.

\---

June 1st, 2014

Steve has spent the past two days in absolute agony.

 

Tony had gone missing shortly after his birthday party on the 29th. Because Steve knows he is still having problems with his alcohol abuse, he keeps a very close watch on him, even when they are not in the same city.

 

He can’t have him followed, because Tony’s extraordinarily advanced AI, JARVIS would realize that Tony had a tail, even if he would be unaware as to who placed it there. However, Steve had a secret weapon.

 

Virginia Potts was a recent graduate of the Scourge, but Steve has a great feeling about her future, and not just in the Underworld. She had organization, compassion, intelligence, determination, bravery, and a fantastic sense of judgment. If Tony didn’t give her a nervous breakdown or get himself killed by the time they were thirty, the two of them were gonna rule the world.

 

While ostensibly, Pepper’s bosses were the Stark Industries board of directors, as far as Pepper was concerned her real boss was Steve Rogers. Stark Industries and SHIELD were rather inextricably intertwined – SI provided a lot of the gear and tech used by the staff and SHIELD staff who would rather move on to cushy jobs in the private sector often migrated to SI.

 

And Steve did not do something that the board did – he treated Pepper as an employee of the company or as Tony’s girlfriend, depending on the context of the conversation. He did not treat her as Tony’s handler, his gopher, or his flavor of the week – to be fair, Tony had tasted a _lot_ of flavors.

 

Pepper wasn’t a flavor. Pepper was a five-star restaurant and if he didn’t manage to screw it up, Tony was going to marry her someday.

 

For the record, Steve also didn’t use Pepper to spy on Tony – he was Tony’s actual friend and if he wanted to tell Steve about his life, he would do it. Pepper was a resource to be used when he was getting worried about Tony not being where he should or not being in contact. Tony was the heir to billions of dollars in stocks, shares, property, and revenue, and there were plenty of people willing to harm him for that alone, never mind his father’s business practices.

 

On the 30th, Peggy and Steve were supposed to take him for a hungover brunch on his actual birthday, but Tony had not been seen since yesterday. Normally, he would tell Fury to send agents for his search but this time, he and Tom went to Tony’s penthouse personally, confirming that he had never made it home.

 

While in line at Starbucks, Steve pretends he’s not somewhere between abruptly bursting into tears of grief and rage or suddenly killing everyone in this room, and his phone rings. He answers his work phone by snapping “Tell me you have something for me.”

 

“I’ve got something _good_ , Boss.” Whatever Tom’s done, he expects to be highly praised for it. “I know who ordered the interception on Stark.”

 

“I want them brought in-”

 

“Already taken care of, Boss.” Thomas is smiling the bad smile, the one that means all his meanest dreams have come true. Whoever is with him now must be pissing themselves. It’s not a nice look. “I have him tied to a chair in Stark Manor – not the Tower in Manhattan, the house upstate. Potts and I did some digging and hit gold. It’s…it was Obadiah Stane, Boss.”  

 

He bolts out of the line, walking out the door at a rapid pace. “I’m on my way. Have Pepper watch him. I need you looking over the tapes and checking security. And Thomas?”

 

“Yes, Boss?”

 

“This was excellently done, Thomas.” Steve says softly, allowing the full warmth to bloom through his voice.

 

With uncharacteristic graciousness, Tom says “Thank you, Head Spook.”

 

Steve is on a motorcycle and heading upstate thirty seconds later. He does not bother calling Fury until he has killed the engine and is slowly coasting into the driveway. “I’ve got Obadiah Stane tied to a chair in Stark Manor right now and Tom and Pepper are fairly convinced that he’s the one responsible for Tony disappearing.”

 

Nick Fury sighs tiredly, muttering “It’s always the friends and family…”

 

“I need the best team you’ve got available prepped and ready whenever I find out where Tony is being kept.” Steve pauses to breath past his wrath.

 

“Do I need to page the wet-works cleanup crew?”

 

“Not required.” Steve smiles grimly. “I clean up my own messes, Director.”

 

This residence has been mostly abandoned – Tony didn’t want to have to deal with going to the house where Howard ruled over his entire childhood, but he also couldn’t face the idea of selling it.

 

Obadiah recognizes him the minute he walks in the door, impatiently rolling up the sleeves of his button-up. “You-!”

 

Steve gives Pepper a reassuring smile. “I can take it from here, Pepper,” he says, making sure the clip in his pistol was loaded. The rest of the house was empty, but a silencer was standard issue for the Scourge. “I’ll keep Mr. Stane company.”

 

“I’m not surprised that Potts is a snake – Tony never did pay attention to where he was putting his dick. But you…”

 

Steve gives him a bored look. “You don’t really think that Howard Stark would allow his son’s best friend to be a pasty asthmatic with a heart condition and no money or connections, do you?”

 

Obadiah makes a sound of disgust. “Figures that Howard would plant an agent to be Tony’s friend.”

 

Steve hums, a noncommittal sound. “Where he is?”

 

Obadiah laughs and spits at him, Steve neatly side-stepped a face full of mucus. Sighing, he says “Obie don’t make me do this the hard way. Actually, no. Fuck that.” The man howls as Steve grabs a letter opener from the desk and stabs through one of the hands clenched upon the arm of the chair. “You’ve pissed me off and now we’re _definitely_ doing this the hard way.”

 

He could do it the nice way. He could strike up a conversation and negotiate with Stane – not that any of his promises would be honored, but Obadiah does not know that. He clearly believes that he is dealing with one of Fury’s agents and does not realize that he faces the head of the Underworld. But Obadiah was someone Tony loved and cared about, and he used that to piss all over Tony’s life.

 

Shockingly, Obadiah doesn’t want to talk to him, but Steve is not in the mood to be denied. It takes him an hour before Obadiah chokes, sobbing “Afghanistan! The little bastard is in Afghanistan! Gave ‘em to the Ten Rings!”

 

Pepper, having watched half of this pale and wide-eyed, immediately hurries to the hallway to dial Fury, and Steve quietly says “I hope for your sake that you didn’t just lie to me, because that would be a very grave mistake.”

 

“I didn’t. I didn’t,” he gasps. “I want to talk to Fury! I can give him answers – information! Evidence!”

 

Calmly, Steve says “I promise you will be given the highest resources SHIELD has available when your case is tried.”

 

From the doorway, Thomas murmurs “Boss,” in a beseeching tone that draws Steve’s attention to him. He gestures him over and bends to whisper in Steve’s ear “I believe I have found evidence that Mr. Stane was responsible for the late Howard Stark’s death. Possibly in young Mrs. Maria Stark’s as well.”

 

“Send it to Fury straight away – you two can go over it later,” Steve says heavily, feeling twice his age. “When they confirm that it’s Tony, I can wrap this up.”

 

“I’ve got Team Delta on route,” Fury says. “All we can do now is wait for their success.”

 

Steve knows each and every one of the SHIELD teams. They are literally his job as the Head Spook. Delta is a pair of ex-army snipers and a Russian oligarch’s angry daughter. Very adequate indeed.

 

He nods and says “We wait for your all-clear then.”

 

Six hours later, the leader of Strike Team Delta radios into the helicopter waiting for them. “This is Barnes with Delta. We have acquired the hostage. I repeat: we have acquired the hostage. Please have emergency medical care at ready.”

 

“You-you have him, see,” Obadiah wheezes. “You’ve got him, I was telling the truth!”

 

“Oh, I wasn’t too worried about that,” Steve says mildly, gesturing for Tom to ready the cleaning equipment in the hallway. “I just like to leave everything neatly tied into a bow, I’m sure you understand.”

 

“So I can have a trial?”

 

“It already happened. See, there was one thing you didn’t seem to know, Obie,” he says, chin in hand. “I really _am_ Tony Stark’s friend.”  

 

Steve’s aim at this range is perfect, one last wheeze escaping from Stane as the bullet enters his heart. Tom times it perfectly so that just as Steve cuts the ties and tips him from the chair, Stane’s body drops right onto the tarp waiting below.

 

“Take it out of here. I’m going to make sure this room is spotless before Tony ever sees it.”

 

“What shall we tell the media happened to Stane?”

 

Shrug and a cheeky gleam in the eyes. “Heart attack?”

 

“You have the most terrible sense of humor, Boss.”

 

“Thanks, Tom.”

\---

“Tony,” Steve murmurs, gently smoothing a microfiber throw blanket across him. “How are you feeling?”

 

He’d gotten him the blanket – he knew from being in the hospital almost every year that the worst part of being there was the fact that the cold was inescapable. Tony lets out a soft, blissful sigh at the warmth covering his legs. “Like I spent three days in a Middle Eastern cave.”

 

Tony plucks the throw unconsciously with nervous fingers and Steve reaches out to clasp on hand with one of his own. His fingers are barely any warmer than the room and filled with a clever strength that has Tony squeezing hard. Steve murmurs “We’re real glad to have you back.”

 

Dark eyes close and Tony clasps Steve’s hand to his chest, just breathing. “I’m glad to be back, Tinker Bell.” He opens his eyes to look at Steve, his patient blue gaze. Steve meets the strength of his grasp, staring at him seriously. “You meet my rescue squad?”

 

Steve shakes his head.

 

“You should,” Tony chuckles, eyes glazed. “Those assholes are _great_. I wanna take Barton to a bar sometime and take bets on how many guys try to kick his ass by last call.”

 

There is a long silence. Hoarsely, he says “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible shithead.”

 

Steve gently pulls his hand closer and holds it there, near his mouth. Touches his lips to the back of Tony’s hand. Not a kiss, but almost as though he breaths a prayer upon it. “You are a shithead, sometimes. But you aren’t terrible.”

 

Tony sniffles, loud and wet, and covers face with his other hand. Steve releases his hand long enough to get up from the chair and hug him. Sobs, loud and distraught, in a way he hadn’t even done at his father’s funeral. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Shhhh, I promise, everything will be okay.”

 

Steve did not realize this was the real reason he’d managed to earn Tony and Tom’s trust. Carol before them. A father – or even a brother – was not someone who acted like an asshole and gave orders.

 

It was a person who might see you falling into the dirt every single day and, no matter how many times they’d had to do it before, they picked you up from the ground, cleaned you up, and told you to go try again.


	12. grace fucking kelly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two idiots walk into...each other's lives, and both think they can't get their shit together (because it has been together literally this whole time).

 

 

 _And wilt thou have me fashion into speech_  
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,  
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,  
Between our faces, to cast light upon each?

 _I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach_  
My hand to hold my spirit so far off  
From myself…me…that I should bring thee proof,  
In words of love hid in me...out of reach.

-"Sonnets from the Portuguese: XIII", Elizabeth Barrett Browning

August 2017

Thomas is having A Day.

 

Carol can usually tell as soon as she walks through the door.

 

She freezes in their front doorway for a moment, taking in the darkened living room and the uneasy silence settled into every corner of the space. Kicking off her flats, Carol throws her thrift-store handbag on the counter and pulls out her earrings. Her dress she throws over one of the high-seated chairs at the kitchen counter, leaving her in just stockings, garters, bra, and the necklace to match those discarded earrings.

 

As predicted, he is laying in bed, eerily still, staring at the ceiling.

 

Normally, removing her bra would be cause for Tom to leer at her and say something sassy. “ _Oh, is that for me_?” But she is met with the dark and the quiet. He gives no indication that he even knows she’s in the room.

 

Abandoning the bra and garter belt on the floor – possibly to live with the dust bunnies under the bed in the near future – she crawls beneath their blankets and wraps herself around him. She does not speak to him. There is nothing to say. His bouts of depression have been worse lately, more frequent, but she has absolute faith that with time he will overcome this latest bout.

 

It used to scare her, the way his spirit just seems to suddenly abandon him and leave his body a breathing husk of itself.

 

Steve warned her the night before she moved in not to treat this as a problem she must fix. He knew it was Carol’s natural inclination – she was an engineer, it was her job to see problems and come up with as many viable solutions as possible.

 

“I think just about everyone in his life started out deciding that they could ‘fix’ him, and that attitude only makes it worse when he can’t make himself all better for their sake.”

 

So she doesn’t.

 

She doesn’t discuss it, she doesn’t ask why or what’s bothering him, because in all likelihood, the answer is probably ‘I don’t know/I can’t explain’.

 

Carol lays in the bed beside him and rests her head near his heart, threading their fingers together without any resistance from him.

 

Part of what made it so disturbing those first few times is that Tom is so vibrant. Flamboyant. Dramatic. His very presence tends to fill up space in a room.

 

She thinks maybe that this is the price for that big personality. She’s decided that it requires him to sort of…recharge himself now and then. Not efficient, but humans so rarely are.

 

It might be a little unusual, but she doesn’t mind so much.

 

Without expecting any acknowledgement, she idly explores every inch of his hand, tracing every line and tendon and vein as she discusses whatever thought comes to mind. “I think Steve has a crush on the Winter Soldier. Or his original personality. Maybe both. He tries to hide how lovestruck he looks, but I see right through him. He barely contain himself when the poor man walks into the room.”

 

“He won’t talk to him, though. Stubborn asshole.”

 

“Have some time off to burn through or Pepper will get annoyed with me. Was thinking about that national park trip. It sounds beautiful.”

 

“Maybe we should go, before the nice weather ends.”

 

Carol strokes her hand gently through his hair, the blue-black strands curling without Tom’s signature half-gallon of hair gel. She hates it slicked back, thinks it makes him look like a knock-off Bond villain, but Tom insists that without it, he looks like he belongs in a 90’s grunge band.

 

She quite likes the 90’s grunge band, thank you very much.

 

Thoroughly tangled up in his hair, Carol kisses his fingers and murmurs “You’re starting to need a haircut, Tom.” Another kiss to his cheek. “G’night, big man.”

 

Hours of silence make Tom’s voice hoarse and sawing. “Goodnight, lassie.”

 

Her mouth curves into a sad smile as her head hits the pillow, the hand in his curls slowly growing slack as she falls asleep.

 

Thomas’s head turns to kiss her wrist. Right now, the depression is stronger than he is, and he hates himself more than he’s hated anything in his life, but he can’t do anything about it but lay here.

 

A voice in the back of his head that sounds just like his father says “ _She’s going to get tired of this one day. No one wants to come home wondering if their partner is going to be sane or not that day. Carol spends half of her time coddling you, why the hell would anyone want to spend the rest of their life doing this?_ ”

 

He turns his head into the pillow and controls his breathing as he starts crying so that he won’t wake her, biting down on his lip. It’s one of the worse parts of a bad day. He mostly lays in bed so that he can keep his mind blank because the kind of things he’ll think about will only torment him.

 

As though she can feel his misery, Carol shifts uneasily, her fingers flexing in his hair, her other hand fisted in the back of his shirt. In her shifting, her skin catches the moisture from his cheek and Carol is instantly more alert. “D’ya have a nightmare?” she slurs, petting his neck with her thumb.

 

Tom grunts something that he hopes sounds like ‘Uh-huh’. It’s technically true.

 

_The nightmare is Me, lass._

\---

Because his brother is a mother hen, he hears this at least twice a month – if not twice a week: “A woman like that isn’t gonna wait on you forever, Tom.”

 

Once, he made the mistake of responding to this nonsense. “And what is ‘a woman like that’, exactly?”

 

For such a broad and friendly face, Chris has a surprising good gimlet stare. “She’s beautiful, respected, and about a thousand times smarter than your dumb arse. You need to talk her into marriage before she gives up and stops waiting for you to figure out what’s right in front of your face.”

 

“So, enlighten me, brother. What’s right in front of my face?”

 

Chris looks almost tragically disappointed in him. “You’re in love with her, fool!”

 

Oh, yes. Well. That.

 

It’s not that Tom doesn’t _know_ that, he isn’t that dense, it’s just…

 

It’s not really something they talk about?

 

God, that sounds too ridiculous to even think, but it’s also true.

 

Thomas and Carol live their entire lives, revolving round each other like twin moons, without ever actually talking about the _why_.

 

They’ve known each other for almost a decade now, they’ve been in…some kind of relationship for nearly all of it, Carol has been _living_ with him in his flat for the past six years. They work in the same office, sleep in the same bed, and pretend that they aren’t using the same toothbrush. (Carol is cheap and Thomas is lazy.) But they’ve never actually _talked_ about any of this.

 

It all just kind of…happened one day.

 

When Ms. Marvel passed off her title to Kamala Khan to become Head Spook, he went with her as the new Deputy Phantom. When she decided that the Scourge were stable enough to carry on by themselves, he went with her.

 

The moment she retired, Stark Industries snapped her up to continue work on their new medical research and development team as an engineer on the biomechanical prosthetics research, he went with her. Tony agreed to hire him in a different department, as part of the cyber security taskforce SHIELD and the government requested SI start building.

 

Where she went, he followed.

 

“I don’t know if I want to keep doing this,” he says quietly, sweeping back a section of his slicked-back hair away from his face as he thinks about his last conversation with Chris.

 

Steve looks up from his sketch, vaguely irritated. “Didn’t I tell you to hold still?”

 

“Didn’t I tell you I’m not going to be a comic book character?” Tom grumps.

 

“Didn’t I tell you that isn’t what I’m doing?” Steve replies, looking even grumpier now. “Believe it or not, I did pretty well in the art world before Sam and I started Marvel. What are you mumbling about over there?”

 

“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” he admits, glancing at the smaller man. At Steve’s blank stare, he clarifies “With Carol.”

 

Too late, Tom realizes that he is saying this to Carol’s dearest friend, the man who is a brother to her, who has at times literally killed for her – and she for him. Steve eyes him critically, as though examining his very bones. “Which part?”

 

“What?”

 

“Which part don’t you want to do anymore? Which part is too much?” he presses, pencil moving back over the thick paper of his sketchpad. “Living together? Working together? Being together at all?”

 

Tom looks away from him, instead choosing to play with the glass of Madeira he poured for himself just before Steve came in.

 

Carol wouldn’t drink beer or ale – said that it tasted like rotted grains, like cereal gone wrong, and the only wine she liked was dessert wine, so he bought Madeira, Muscat, Ice Wine, and Tokaji. Last month, Tony gave him a glass of scotch at Steve’s birthday party and he’d nearly spit it out.

 

After so long, he’d lost all taste for whiskey and beer. How had Tom never noticed he hadn’t bothered with a simple lager in seven years? Ah, but he knew how – she wouldn’t kiss him with his mouth tasting of it.

 

This part, this scared him, too.

 

He’d changed his tastes in something he used in enjoy because she didn’t, without even noticing that it was happening.

 

He is cautious, because he is not a total fool whatever Steve thinks, and he knows that he should choose his next words carefully. “I don’t know if I…want to keep following her wherever she goes.” Something akin to shame and embarrassment floods him just saying that. “She makes it easy on me – I almost don’t even have to think about it, and that’s the part that scares me. I’ve lost…” Well, he supposes that he’s already put his foot in his mouth. “I’ve lost myself to her, without noticing it. And I don’t know if I want to keep going like this.”

 

“Why? I mean, why does this bother you _now_?”

 

Without realizing it – without Tom realizing it, because Steve almost certainly knew how viciously precise his question was – Steve had managed to strike straight into heart of his problem and bring his greatest fear into the light of day.

 

Abruptly getting up from his seat, he paces the room rather frantically, taking a large swallow of wine and says “Because-because I…I _care_ , alright. For her.” Throat tight and dry, he whispers hoarsely “Because I _love_ her.”

 

“And this scares you,” Steve concludes, brows drawn together, glancing back and forth between Tom and his sketchpad. “You’ve been sleeping next to Carol for six years and you’ve just now realized that you love her? Tom, you leave out the hair gel for her. I could’ve told you this _at least_ five years ago.”

 

“Yes. No, I mean, yes of course I knew it, I just don’t _say_ it,” he says impatiently.

 

“I…guess I’m still not understanding what the problem is,” Steve admits, with the novel feeling of being very perplexed.

 

“She doesn’t say anything either!” he yells, startling himself with the volume of his own voice and lowering it accordingly. “It’s been seven bloody years and she’s never said a word!”

 

“If you think it’s too casual, offer to get serious,” Steve suggests.

 

“No,” Tom says simply, looking exhausted now. He collapses into a chair. “Carol never doesn’t know what she wants, and if she wants it, she damn well _takes_ it. I thought…ah, a bloke should be able to handle casual, eh? Everyone man in the Western world’s dream, right? Sex, someone cute to keep the bed warm, and no bloody wedding ring. In the meantime, I…” He laughs bitterly. “I’ve got night sweats, wondering if tomorrow is the day she’ll decide she’s had enough of my bullshit.”

 

Tom doesn’t see Steve staring at him, at his shaking hands, because he is glaring at the floor. “Are you telling me you’ve been having anxiety attacks about this and Carol hasn’t said anything?”

 

He shrugs. “PTSD, right? I have it, she has it – _you_ have it, somewhere deep inside that lonely coffin of your life.”

 

Steve laughs ruefully. “I actually didn’t until more recently. You first gotta have the ‘post’ part in ‘post-traumatic’. If traumatic is your all-the-time, it gets a lot harder to hold onto. All comes rushing back eventually though.” He rubs his temples. At Tom’s expression, he adds “Don’t start, Thomas. I take my meds on time and I’ve never failed a psyche eval.”

 

Neither of them point out that Steve has long-since been skilled enough to manipulate even a trained psychologist. However, his exit evaluations are sent straight to Fury and if the man even _suspected_ he was duping his doctor, Fury would have Steve rounded up for the full check-up.

 

“She isn’t going to just decide that she’s had enough, Tom. People make jokes about my lack of patience, so they tend to forget about how _ferociously_ efficient Carol is. She won’t spend her time on anything she isn’t willing to completely dedicate herself to, from tennis to shooting. You’re right – it’s been _seven years_. I think you might need to consider that while you’re following Carol wherever she goes, where Carol usually wants to go is right to you.”

\---

October 2nd, 2017

They go camping for their vacation, driving down to Shenandoah National Park. Steve thinks they’re both nuts and is just a little too polite to say it directly to their faces. Spending hours a day hiking through the Blue Ridge Mountains in October is not his idea of a good time.

 

It should be, Carol contemplates, because the view was made for the eyes of an artist.

 

“This is spectacular,” she breathes, staring down at the Shenandoah Valley opening below them as twilight falls. It’s a riot of colors, and as night creeps up on them, mist curls around the mountains.

 

Tom takes a long drink of water and nods in agreement. “Good birthday present?”

 

“Great birthday present,” she says with a wide smile. “But I gave this to myself, so what are you getting me?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he drawls, with a naughty gleam in his eye.

 

She pouts. “You can’t give me sex for my birthday, we’re way past that.”

 

“Oh, shit, then I might be in trouble,” he says mildly. “Wait, when did we get past that?”

 

“The first year!” Carol says, laughing. “It’s only a gift if it’s a novelty – we are so past that.”

 

“Ah. Well, for the record, you can get me sex for my birthday, Christmas, Hanukkah, Labor Day, any damn day of the year. But no, that isn’t what I got you.”

 

“Hm, well now I’m intrigued.”

 

It’s her birthday, so of course it spends the whole night pouring rain, but that isn’t a huge problem once they’re inside the tent. They’ve been camping in the dead of winter (for work and for pleasure – wow, Steve may have a point here) and it’s hardly the worst weather they’ve ever encountered.

 

Tom sits behind her on the sleeping bags and murmurs “Close your eyes” in her ear. Affectionately, she first rolls her eyes and then closes them, settling in with her legs crossed. There is rustling, and Tom says “Hold out your hands, palms up. But don’t open your eyes until I tell you to.”

 

“I swear to god, if you put a snake in my hands, Thomas…”

 

Behind her, he laughs.

 

It is not a snake. In fact, it feels like a long thin box made of leather. It isn’t heavy, and Tom watches her expression change as she attempts to figure out what he’s handed her without opening her eyes.

 

Gently, he lifts the lid and suddenly met with the enormity of what he’s done, whispers “Open your eyes.”

 

Carol stares at the bracelet in shock, slowly leaving the box in his hands so that she can pick it up and examine it. It’s nothing she ever would’ve picked for herself – incredibly delicate and expensive-looking, in a style that would’ve been modern maybe twenty or thirty years ago. Three tiny amethyst sit at intervals upon the thin silver chain, with a nameplate on either side of the latching mechanism.

 

She finds herself muffling a sound of surprise when she realizes what the tiny engraving on one of the equally tiny nameplates says. “This is…”

 

 _Thomas William_ , on the left side. And on the right: _February 8 th, 1987_

 

“Rene’s,” he agrees quietly, staring with tense silence at her face, frozen in an expression of astonishment. “Anthony gave her two of these – one on the day Chris was born, and one the day I was first brought to their home.”

 

“I-Tom, I don’t even know what to say,” she breathes. “This was _your mother’s_.”

 

It was closest he could gather to finding the courage to propose to her without actually handing over a ring, and clearly the implications of handing over one of his mother’s last possessions was not lost on her. Tom’s stomach clenches, rebelling at this whole business.

 

Carol holds her wrist up, shakily saying “Let’s hope it fits.”

 

Tom lets out a ragged breathed, half relieved and half sick still. “It will fit,” he answers, fierce and fervent, before moving to clasp it onto her arm. His heart pounds in his ears. “There.”

 

With that same arm, Carol grabs him by the collar and whispers “You won’t ever get rid of me now, you know. They’ll have to cut this off my dead body.”

 

“I was rather counting on that, yeah,” Tom says with a smile that can’t decide if he’s putting on his con artist’s smirk or trying to display his genuine joy.

 

She traces his jaw gently with a thumb. “Oh, I see,” she murmurs “You’ve got your name on me now, hm? Scare all those other men off me? Lord knows, I have to beat them off with a stick!”

 

As Carol was joking, she’s a bit surprised when Tom clenches his jaw and nods, swallowing and saying, “I’ve got to make sure they know what they’re dealing with.”  

 

Softening, she leans forward to kiss him “That’s alright, they all know they haven’t got a chance with me,” she says, gently tugging at the curls that fall over the nape of his neck. “They all know I’m totally gone on this one hotshot I work with, you’ve probably met him. He’s from across the pond, with a voice that belongs on radio, and he makes me feel like Grace fucking Kelly every damn day.”  

 

“Am I Rainier in this scenario?” he whispers. _God_ , he’s felt less nervous while killing a man. “Wouldn’t that make you Princess of Monaco?”

 

“Mhm,” she murmurs, “But you don’t have to call me ‘Your Highness’ – you can just call me ‘Mrs. Hemsworth’.”

 

“Is that right?” Is this what having a heart attack feels like? He takes every joke he made at Steve back. She does not sound like she’s joking. “Is that a suggestion, lassie, or a royal command?”

 

She pulls lightly on his hair. Sitting down, there is less difference in their height, but Carol still has to lean up on her haunches to reach his mouth. Biting his lower lip, she says solemnly “I, Carol the Princess of Monaco and Tribeca, decree that only Prince Thomas may call me ‘lass’ or ‘lassie’.” Lower, she adds “But when we’re alone, he has to call me ‘Mrs. Hemsworth’.”

 

Tom helps her bridge the difference in their statures, as he always does, cupping his hands beneath her bum to lift her slightly higher. “Well, I strive to provide a good example to my citizens and uphold the law at all times,” he agrees somberly, laying her down on top of the blankets. “Therefore, it is my faithful duty to wish you a very happy birthday, Mrs. Hemsworth.”

 

She gasps as he kisses her neck, the bracelet cool against his skin as she reaches to clasp his shoulder. “Thomas…”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hemsworth?”

 

“I want…that thing, that you do…”

 

To any other man, that would sound like a very coy suggestion by a shy mistress, but he’d heard Carol make the filthiest requests with a straight face. There was only one ‘that thing’ for her.

 

Rene loved classic literature, and educated both of her sons in it, but only Thomas shared that love. Poetry was his clandestine favorite and he’d memorized dozens of passages, much to Carol’s delight. She would coax him to recite something for her. First he did this reluctantly, and now with a terrible and secret pleasure – often while in bed, just like this.

 

After a moment of delirious contemplation, and he settles on his choice.

 

“ _It is the miller’s daughter, and she is grown so dear, so dear_ ,” he murmurs next to her ear, hands planted on either side of her pillow. “ _That I would be the jewel that trembles in her ear_ ,” he continues, moving his mouth down her throat, never to daring to stray from her skin “ _For hid in ringlets day and night, I’d touch her neck so warm and white.”_

 

“ _And I would be the girdle about her dainty, dainty waist_ ,” he breaths, a large hand covering the slight expanse on the woman below him and slowly moving up her ribcage. “ _And her heart would beat against me, in sorrow and in rest_ ,” he rumbles, with another kiss to her neck. “ _And I should know if it beat right, I’d clasp it round so close and tight_.”

 

Tom suddenly swallows. This, he realizes, this is his ‘I love you’. Maybe he really is as dense as Steve claims. For years, he’s been telling her but never really thought about it.

 

For years, she’s been asking for it, and he gives it to her, and her response never disappoints him. The night he recited Lord Byron’s “ _She Walks In Beauty_ ”, they broke a bed.

 

He looks at Carol, cheeks flushed and staring back at him like Thomas Hemsworth is the only thing she wants to see for the rest of her life.

 

“ _And I would be the necklace_ ,” Tom says hoarsely, cupping her breasts through her jumper. “ _And all day long to fall and rise upon her balmy bosom, with her laughter or her sighs_.” He sinks down against her, whispering to her mouth “ _And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night_.”

 

Carol laughs softly upon his lips, holding his hands against her. She looks up from beneath her eyelashes, blushing from the tops of her ears to each breast – everywhere his hands and mouth have been. Moaning, she whimpers “God, Tom, you could convince me of anything when you do that…”

 

“ _Anything_? What shall I convince you to do, Mrs. Hemsworth?” he whispers, listening to the hitch in her breath. “Shall I convince you to be Grace Kelly for the rest of your life?”

 

His traces a line lightly over her ring finger and Carol sucks in a breath and says “Only if you’re my Rainier.”

 

Carol loves the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles like that. “I, Thomas the Prince of Monaco and Tribeca, want you to be my wife, Mrs. Hemsworth.”

 

“I am your wife, Thomas,” she murmurs, kissing him until his muscles relax and he rests heavily on top of her. This is his place, as far as Carol is concerned, this is where he belongs. “We just don’t have the paperwork filed yet.”

 

“Yet?”

 

“ _Yet_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Loki is a Shakespeare nerd, don't @ me.
> 
> The poem he recites to Carol is "The Miller's Daughter" by Lord Alfred Tennyson (the same one at the beginning of Chapter 8).


	13. the kids are(n't) alright, part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That got dark(er) fast.

March 22nd, 2007

Tyrone marks his students’ papers to the continuous beeping rhythm of the heart monitor in the corner of the room.

 

To another person, this experience might feel tragic or depressing, but he was curiously relaxed, letting the sound of the machine wash over him. Ty and Tandy had attended to Steve while in the hospital a grand total of six times in the past year and a half. In fact, there were now two lists attached to the front of their fridge. One was the list of all the symptoms that would require an immediate doctor’s visit and the other was a list of things that required the ER or an ambulance.

 

This time – and the time before – were the result of the doctors fucking around with his medications.

 

After somehow catching the flu in the middle of July, Steve’s doctors had decided to experiment with ways to boost his immune system. Unfortunately, both attempts to do this had interacted with his other medications in weird and bad ways.

 

Last night, Tandy had come home to find Steve in his room and initially, had assumed that he was taking a nap, until she’d seen the wet spot in the middle of his bedspread and realized that he was _unconscious_ , not sleeping. After shrieking at Billie to get her phone, she’d kept him on the bed through another seizure while she dialed for an ambulance.

 

 _Other_ people may look at Steve and see a fragile asthmatic. _Other_ people would find spending this much time in a hospital demoralizing.

 

Appearances be damned, Ty knew that Steve was a warrior, tried and tested, and this was just another day on the battlefield for him. He would live to fight again – Ty was just here to make sure he did not have to fight alone.

 

On the bed, Steve fights off his grogginess to inhale the familiar scents of stale antiseptic and the sharp medicinal smell he recognizes as the star-spangled quilt made by his mother – Tandy insists on storing it in a cedar chest, packed away with herbs that give it a scent that reminds him persistently of cough drops and medicated chest rub.

 

It’s seems a bit odd and superstitious to him, but doesn’t argue. He never asks for the blanket, it always simply appears whenever he ends up in the hospital.

 

“Tan…dy…”

 

A warm and too-large hand is placed upon his shoulder. Ty’s voice, as familiar and comforting as his star-quilt murmurs “What do you need?”

 

“Water,” he croaks weakly.

 

He feels the cool rim of the cup against his mouth and Ty, while he doesn’t poor quickly enough for Steve’s taste, also doesn’t accidentally choke him.

 

His feet are toasty warm – a sure sign that Tandy or Ty remembered to bring along the hot water bottle and already begged the staff for boiling water to fill it with. He was beginning to suspect that the pair of them kept a pre-packed bag of items to leave the house with every time Steve had to go back to the hospital.

 

Exhausted, he drops back into the pillows. Tyrone’s hand covers his forehead, a gesture meant to comfort rather than monitor. Steve shifts his hips and shoulders restlessly on the bed. “Do you want me to get the doctor?”

 

“No. ‘m fine.” He does not say anything else, but grasps Tyrone’s forearm and squeezes with all his meager strength.

 

As though he’s spoken aloud, Ty murmurs “Just rest and relax. I’m not leaving.”

 

June 18th, 2016

“I’ve brought you the forms, but Steven, I am not your…” Carol drops the pile of papers to the ground, running towards the desk and knocking over the vase of white lilies in her haste to reach him. “Head Spook? Steve! STEVE!”

 

Though face-down at his desk, Steve stirs slightly, weakly pushing himself up from the edge of the desk. Carol, having been trained in what is likely to be wrong with him and when, hisses through her teeth and says “Anemia?”

 

He nods. “’s okay, I was just taking a breather before…before I get up for something to eat.”

 

“And what fucking time did you decide to do that?!” Carol demands, her voice hard. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Steve”

 

He gives her a blank stare. “…shit.”

 

Snarling, Carol plucks her cellphone from her purse. “Thomas, I need a steak done medium rare and some kind of whole grain bread. A spinach salad, steamed broccoli, whole milk, and cranberry or grape juice – yes, all of it, for fuck’s sake, did I stutter?”

 

Tom, to her relief, doesn’t ask her what the hell kind of restaurant would serve steak and a spinach salad with whole milk. Simply responds to the anger and fear in her voice by saying “Yes, lass. As fast as I can.”

 

“Bring it up to Head Spook, and tell Banshee not to allow anyone else in here unless one of us gives him the all clear.”

 

By the time he has returned, he finds them both sitting side by side on the couch in Steve’s office and realizes why Carol has banned anyone but him from the room. Carol, seated on the couch, has Steve’s spindly legs draped across her lap and there is hardly any life to their Head. He rests upon the sofa like a wrung-out rag, limp and worn. He’s gone gray, his fingernails and lips all bloodless, a hand held over his aching eyes.

 

Carol spots his entry and pulls Steve up with an arm beneath his shoulders, Steve unresisting but also unhelpful in his weakness. “Come here,” she says, gesturing urgently with her other hand. “The milk first.”

 

Steve makes a face at the carton Tom hands over and Carol says “I don’t even wanna hear it, Steven. I know you don’t like whole, but you can’t keep weight on as it is.”

 

Giving an exhausted sigh, Steve says “Yes, Carol Ann” and downs the whole pint in a single breath.

 

He is panting afterwards with the effort of using all his breath at once, his heart racing against Carol’s arm. “Bloody stop that,” Tom hisses. “Are you _trying_ to worry Carol to death, you stubborn ass?”

 

Steve laughs, then winces, his head throbbing with pain. Scowling, Carol shoves the spinach salad into his hands. “Eat it or I’ll start shoving iron supplements down your throat, Steven.”

 

Exhaling through his nose, Steve finishes the salad one bite at a time, frowning harder and harder as Carol cuts the steaks into bite-sized pieces like a mother cutting up her child’s food, just to irritate the shit out of him. For once though, Steve is out of the energy to protest and Carol has no problem with taking advantage of that because Steve Rogers is her constant personal headache and tormenting him in return is currently her divine purpose.  

 

“Would you like to tell me why you haven’t been keeping up with your diet?” she asks calmly, fingers laced together as she watches him eat. She cuts him off before he even bothers to reply. “You haven’t changed meds in four years and your last injury was six month ago, Steve. Don’t lie to me – if you were taking proper care of yourself, this wouldn’t have happened.”

 

“You forget to eat when you’re distracted.” Searching his expression, Carol says “Have you thought about our conversation?”

 

Steve nods and Tom narrows his eyes at him, watching him pick at his broccoli. “What conversation would that be, since this appears to be something outside of the professional purview?”

 

“It’s both,” Staring into his grape juice, he says “I think…I think it’s time to hand in my notice…”

 

Tom simply stares at him in stunned silence.

 

It’s not just that the Head Spook is notorious for staying until their inevitable death – it’s that Steve is the _Spook of Spooks_. Like many recruits who started their careers before adulthood, he and Carol carry this elusive quality, this Otherness that almost feels as though they are more phantom than person.

 

But unlike the others, Tom believes Steve has had that quality since long before his graduation day.

 

“You’re not to tell anyone else,” Carol orders quietly. “I was planning on discussing this with you in a few weeks, before he made the announcement.”

 

“I hadn’t even decided until yesterday morning,” Steve says irritably. Carol gives him a look. She knew he had made his decision the moment he spoke the words to her. “Carol will be taking my place when I leave – it won’t be soon, but before the end of the year.”

 

He looks at Carol, who gives him a half smile. “Don’t look so worried, big man. I don’t actually plan on staying much longer, either. As far as I’m concerned, my position is transitionary only. I’ll remain Head Spook as long as it takes my to make sure we have a decent set of top three staff. But the Deputy Phantom post is yours for the taking.”

 

“You plan to retire as well?” he asks, brows raised.

 

She shrugs. “There’s only one way to go once you’ve reached the top, and I don’t plan on retiring the old-fashioned way. I understand if you prefer the excitement to a day job, but I can’t do this forever and I don’t want to try.”

 

Unspoken between them: Carol was here because Steve needed her, and he needed her more than she needed to be free of this place. He has never asked her to stay with him, they have never promised not to split up, but by his leaving, Carol no longer has a true reason to stay.

 

“I assume you have someone slated to take my slot, then?”

 

Steve nods “You’re a technical expert and Carol’s the master of covert ops and infiltration, which means you’ll probably need a heavy-hitter who can handle high combat level, some suited to be the Deputy when she leaves.”

 

“They’ll need to be Head Spook,” Tom says firmly, looking between each of the Twins. “I’m not staying around here to babysit these cocking children when the pair of you skiv off to god knows where.”

 

“Perfect,” Steve says with a genuine smile. “I’m even more confident of my choice now. Your Third Ghost will be Jessica Jones.”

 

At Carol’s approving head tilt, Tom says “That will make her Head Spook – you already know who you’re naming Deputy and Third when we leave, don’t you?”

 

“You and I will revisit this when the time comes,” she hedges, “But I already have my likely picks. I’d love Pepper to take Deputy, but she’s too close to Stark Industries for my comfort on that. Matt doesn’t have your technical skills, but he can take Steve’s place as Fury’s Spook strategical adviser. Kate _does_ have good tech skills, so she’ll round them out nicely.”

\---

~~Moondragon. Deadpool/Domino. Hellcat~~

~~Hellcat. Deadpool/Domino. Arachnid~~

~~Arachnid. Copycat. Cloak & Dagger~~

~~Arachnid. Scarlet Spider. Lionheart~~

~~Arachnid. Scarlet Spider. The Marvel Twins~~

~~Captain. Ms. Marvel. Fenrir~~

~~Ms. Marvel. Fenrir. Jewel.~~

 

**Jewel. Daredevil. Hawkeye.**

 

December 29th, 2017

Officially, Bucky meets Steve’s Carol almost immediately after they begin dating.

 

 _Unofficially_ …

 

Clint and Natasha won’t let Bucky leave the hospital even though he’s been himself for nearly six hours.

 

(He has to let himself believe that’s why they aren’t leaving, even though somewhere inside, he knows that isn’t it. Steve is a liar, and maybe none of this was real, but Bucky still can’t stand the idea of him being hurt and alone.)

 

Peggy, exhausted and overworked, had a room of her own until just this afternoon, but she is in the middle of checking herself out, despite looking badly bruised.

 

During this process, a woman wearing a beautiful houndstooth coat stalks into the waiting room. This Clint finds especially impressive because her green stilettos are at least four inches tall and he was not previously aware that someone could stalk in those. Stomp and flounce, yes. Stalk, no. Peggy straightens so suddenly that she winces, making all three of them wonder if she’s hurt her back.

 

The woman has fine golden hair carefully styled into loose curls and bright fuchsia lipstick. Without the heels, she would be around Natasha and Steve’s height. With them, she is closer to Clint’s. For just a moment, her eyes meet with Bucky’s, the blue of a summer’s day, and the woman turns away, looking silently and deeply furious. “Where is he?”

 

“Carol,” Peggy says carefully and Bucky tenses. At no point until now has Peggy Carter ever seemed nervous or intimidated.

 

The blond woman – Carol – eyes Peggy’s battered appearance critically. “I see he’s gotten someone else involved in his problems again.”

 

“You can’t kill him, Carol.”

 

“Oh, I _can_ ,” Carol purrs, her hand tightening convulsively on the strap of her handbag. “The question now becomes if I _will_. Don’t make excuses for his sorry self – where is he?”

 

Bucky is even tenser, he doesn’t know why. Steve’s life is clearly not his business. (But he does know why, though.)

 

Looking quietly defeated, Peggy says “First on the left. He’s probably sleeping.”

 

Carol snorts and turns away, coat swinging behind her.

 

“Who was that?” Natasha demands angrily. She’s ready to explode. The woman is close to Steve and they’ve never even seen her – at this point, Natasha wouldn’t be surprised if that was his wife or girlfriend.

 

Exhausted beyond her endurance and longing for Angie and her own damn bed, Peggy says “That was…Carol.”

 

None of them ask for further clarification, though all of them can hear her hesitation. The truth is, Peggy doesn’t really know how to answer that, because Carol is and has been so many things for Steve. She is the person who knows him best and that’s probably why – consciously or unconsciously – Steve has kept her away from them, because telling Bucky about Carol would’ve meant that this was real and permanent. A relationship he planned on keeping and investing himself in.

 

In their thirteen years together, Carol’s been his classmate, lover, partner, sister, subordinate, and superior. They figured out how to be serial killers together and now they try to figure out how to be civilians apart. Arguably, Steve is good at the former and bad at the latter.

 

And Peggy isn’t going to explain any of this because doing that is Steve’s burden, not her own. If Steve wants Bucky, wants to keep Team Delta in his life, then being a Spook isn’t the only thing he’s been keeping from them.

 

From down the hall, the four of them hear Carol’s voice beginning to rise and fall as she yells at Steve. “-ignore…and what kind of…you, Steve!”

 

“Don’t tell me…and do nothing…for the _fucking_ …”

 

“I can’t…and clean up YOUR messes…while…”

 

“You and…but I didn’t…I won’t…”

 

“-didn’t say…but you can’t just… _Steve_ , please!”

 

Whatever Steve’s next reply is too low to hear and there is another few moments of angry hissing before the pair of them fall quiet.

 

Carol’s green heels march back down the hall and she neatly flicks a rose-colored business card from the pocket of the houndstooth coat. “While I’d love to stay and beat the shit out of him, I’m actually going out of town,” she says coolly, handing Peggy the card. “But if Steve tries to leave against medical advice or argues with the doctors, you can call this number any time, day or night, and he’ll be taken care of – whether he likes it or not.”

 

“I can’t just tie him to the bed if he wants to release himself!”

 

Carol give her an arch look before saying “If he makes a fuss about staying in the hospital and being on bedrest, just tell him that you have Thomas and Carol’s number. I promise, you won’t have any more problems.”

 

With that, she walks away.

 

January 12th, 2018

The winter sunshine is deceptively bright in the bitter cold and Steve nervously approaches the table where Bucky and the Bartons sit. “Ah, you remember when I said that I’d like to be as honest with you as I can?”

 

Clint jokes “Is this the part where you tell us that you shot JFK, because I’m not sure I’m ready for that, Steve.”

 

“Ha, no,” Steve says with a wry smile. “I’ve been…not exactly keeping a secret. We’ll say I’ve been avoiding a couple of important topics, partly to protect them.”

 

“Whose ‘them’?” Natasha asks steadily. She’s defrosted a lot toward Steve since viewing his ‘present’.

 

“My Clint and Natasha.”

 

“I thought that was Sam and Peggy?” Clint says, confused.

 

“No,” Steve says grimly. “No, in fact I’m sorry I’ve insulted you with the comparison – _please_ stop being creepy and don’t lurk around corners like that.”

 

A slender blonde woman – _Carol_ – and a tall, slim dark-haired man practically melt from the shadows and beside Bucky, he can feel Natasha and Clint tense. “We weren’t lurking,” Carol insists, sitting at the table immediately beside theirs. “We just didn’t want to appear out of nowhere.”

 

“You’ve completely failed at that, congratulations,” Clint says, and Carol grins at him.

 

Steve sighs. “Team Delta, please meet Carol and Tom, the pair of harebrained _assholes_ who managed, god knows how, to keep me alive for the past thirteen years.”

 

“With no help from you,” the tall man, dark hair oiled back and eyes a startling bright blue in his pale face says in a British accent “Thomas Hemsworth, I sincerely apologize for the mess he’s made.”

 

Bucky’s eyes widen. Tom’s voice is a bit too recognizable – though of course he knew him as ‘Fenrir’. “You’re-!” He cuts himself off, glancing at Steve. “You worked for the same department?”

 

“We did,” Carol says easily. “Carol Danvers, the only woman dumb enough to marry one of these idiots. Steve has this strange idea that I can’t read his mind so I’m going to pretend he isn’t having a panic attack over this meeting.” She smiles at him, thrilled to meet the man whose made Steve so happy. “I promise meeting Mom and Dad will be much less awkward.”

 

There is nearly the sound of crickets and Bucky repeats “Mom and Dad?”

 

Steve shifts a bit anxiously and Carol stares at him. “You were…you were planning on letting him meet them, right? Steve…Steve, they’d be _heartbroken_ …”

 

“Steve has told us that he is an orphan,” Natasha says carefully. Like the others, she is now realizing that Carol and Steve are both slender and diminutive, pale, blonde, and blue-eyed. “As are we.”

 

“I am going to kill you,” Carol informs Steve. “Because once again, you have made a mess and I’m going to clean it up. Steve has already told you that he was recruited as a child?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “We were teenagers, don’t misrepresent things.”

 

“I was fifteen and you were sixteen, Steve. We were child soldiers. The fact that we weren’t coerced into it is almost negligible,” Carol says firmly. “I assume you know how Steve got his place in the department?”

 

“Sarah died from complications of the same heart problem Steve has,” Bucky says slowly. Steve didn’t really like to talk about his mother’s death, which he could understand – his own mother had died trying to protect his youngest sisters. “After a serious illness.”

 

“That’s right, but Steve was considered a mental health high-risk recruit, so Arachnid had him paired to a partner, who was also high-risk. Me. I was his partner. No matter how self-sufficient they are, the department doesn’t allow minors to run around by themselves, so we were formally adopted by our training instructors, Cloak and Dagger.” She glares at Steve. “I know they aren’t any kind of replacement for Dad or Sarah, but you know how much they care, and they’d be devastated that you planned to keep them a fucking secret, Steven!”

 

“I wasn’t planning on it!” Steve protests. “But Jesus, Carol, 80 percent of our lives were classified and there’s such a thing as easing them into it!”

 

She and Tom stare at each other, before Tom finally says, “Who are you and what have you done with Steve Rogers?”

 

“Steve,” Carol says seriously. “They are definitely smart enough to realize the Johnsons aren’t normal foster parents, and you don’t ease into _anything_. Have you told them about the time you pretended to be a politician’s rent boy? Oh, and the time you stopped a serial killer from cooking and eating you?”

 

Bucky blanches “A _serial killer? Cooking_?”

 

“Oh dear,” Tom murmurs and Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“Well, this went well,” he sighs. “No, Carol, no, I don’t talk about that because until a month ago, they thought I was a boring asthmatic with a job as a comic books artist.”

 

“But you are,” she says, confused. “No offense, Steven, but you’re one of the most boring people I know.”

 

Steve falls into their old joke. “Are you Carol Danvers or Carol Burnett?”

 

“Are you Steve Rogers or Stephen Colbert?” she answers back automatically. “The fun stories are the best part of knowing the classified bits!”

 

Bucky swallows, scrubbing a hand hard over the bristles at his jaw. “I’m sorry, but I-I…I have a hard time thinking about that,” he admits, still looking chalky with horror. “I know that he’s done it, but I don’t like thinking of it.”

 

“Of Steve killing people?” Carol asks coolly, and they can all hear the quiet sense of scorn in her voice, blatantly calling him a hypocrite without even needing to say it out loud.

 

Bucky’s eyes meet with hers, his face it’s most puppy-dog sorrowful. “Of him…being in danger. Getting hurt.”

 

Carol eyes soften minutely. “I know this probably a little mind boggling, but it’s people like you that we would’ve protected, Bucky. Idealists who believed in their jobs and were trying to help people. People like you guys made the hardest parts of that department worth it.”

 

“What were the hardest parts?” Clint prompts suddenly.

 

Steve looks grim and lost in thought. Quietly, Tom says “The first three firsts. Your first kill. Your first murderer. Your first rapist.”

 

Carol hesitates, before saying “Not every person chosen for the department is a good choice…and if the recruiter made a big enough mistake, something has to be done about that person.”

 

“By something…” Natasha says slowly. “You mean…?”

 

“Yes.” Hastily, she adds “That was only done in very specific cases. If we had problems with accepting the mentally ill, none of us would’ve gotten in, but these people were violent or manipulative and often both, and they were not capable of rehabilitation. It’s hard to see…not yourself, but a version of yourself that’s so twisted it’s beyond any capacity for moral thinking.”

 

Finally, Steve says “The hardest parts are always the parts you don’t expect. The surprises.”

 

“I’m not saying this to be offensive, because fuck knows I’m the last person who can judge you,” Bucky says, glancing between them. “How many people have the three of you killed?”

 

“You first,” Tom says immediately as Carol turns to Steve and tilts her head at him, the beginning of their silent conversation.

 

“Forty three,” Clint says grimly. “But only as an agent, not total – I don’t know how many when I was in the army, it was harder to tell.”

 

Restlessly, Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “Between eighty-five and one hundred and six,” he sighs. “It’s harder to tell with Zima.”

 

“Forty-one,” Natasha says, precise and final.

 

Tom simply says, “It’s more than a hundred and six.”

 

Still staring at Steve, Carol says “Most of us will try not to keep track, it tends to have…detrimental side effects to think like that. Then there’s sometimes a danger that you’ll get a taste for it.”

 

“Carol.” Steve says the single word with quiet intensity.

 

“All or nothing, Steve,” she responds, equally serious. “Your rules, not mine.”

 

Steve’s chest rises sharply. Their gazes break away from each other and he looks at Bucky. “I did.”

 

“Did what?”

 

“I got a taste for it,” Steve says, holding his eyes. “Officially, we’re allowed to kill when we think lives are in immediate danger. I really don’t want to answer that question, because you’re not going to like it, Buck. Let’s just say that if I witnessed direct evidence of wrongdoing, I didn’t wait for the Director’s order.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“Twelve…” Steve sighs.

 

“…hundred.” Carol adds helpfully. “Approximately – some of them might’ve been mine. It’s hard to tell when you’ve blown up the whole building.”

 

Bucky stares at him blankly. “You have killed…more than a thousand people…each?”

 

“Including four serial killers,” she agrees pleasantly. “But only one of those was me.”

 

“Dude, I want to hear more about pretending to be a politician’s sugar baby! Who was it?” Clint demands “Oh god, please tell me it was Pence, I’ll love you forever…”

 

Steve massages his temples. “I’m very sorry that I ever introduced you to each other.”

 

“Oh, Boss,” Thomas says with a savage smile. “You’re not nearly sorry yet. What about the Cairo poker game? Or I can tell him about the time you spent a whole night being a stripper, so that I could ruffy a sleazy stock broker’s drink.”

 

“He doesn’t do much to fill out a corset, obviously,” Carol stage-whispers. “But he has _great_ legs.”

 

Bucky throws his head back and laughs, so loud and joyous that it’s pretty hard for Steve to really be mad.

 

“You’re both the literal fucking worst.”

 

February 4th, 2018

Hardly more than a month after being released, Steve must be checked back into the hospital and it is Carol who calls Bucky to tell him this.

 

Peggy frets and insists that this is because he takes such poor care of himself, but Carol is much more cavalier about the affair, almost verbally shrugging over the phone. “It happens almost every winter – it probably has something to do with your little Yuletide adventure but unless he thinks he should punish himself, Steve’s pretty good at following doctors orders by now.”

 

Chewing his lips, Bucky says “I’ll be right there. Is there anything I can get for him?”

 

“Blankets,” Carols says immediately. “And a hot water bottle – he can’t have too many, he’s always cold, especially here. Normally that would be Tom’s task, but I pass that torch to you. I’ll swing by his studio and grab some sketchpads so he isn’t too bored.”

 

Seeing him in the hospital the first time – a blurry collection of confused images as seen through Zima’s eyes – was hard. In a way, this is worse.

 

His feelings are no longer an aching mix of conflicted desires and impulses and watching Steve lay on the rough starched sheets, looking drained of his bright spark of life, is nearly unbearable.

 

He piles blankets over the bed, but doesn’t bother with the hot water bottle. Instead, Bucky climbs in next to him. He is Steve’s _mishka_ , and it’s his job to keep him warm, not some unreliable hunk of red rubber.

 

The arms around him make Steve stir from his uneasy sleep, wheezing “Buck?”

 

“Mhm.” God, he really is freezing. Bucky wonders if he even has the energy to shiver right now.

 

Steve murmurs incoherently, head turning towards Bucky as a flower turns toward the sun. Bucky grabs the hand attached to an IV drip, engulfing his frozen fingers with his own. Steve’s other hand worms beneath the back of his shirt, a close approximation of the way they go to sleep each night.

 

An hour later, a nurse – Michelle – informs him that visiting hours are now over. “Ma’am,” Bucky says kindly “I mean this in the nicest way: I’m not leaving this bed unless you have security drag me out of it.”  

 

Exhausted and still wheezing softly, Steve murmurs “Please let him stay. I won’t get any sleep without him.”

 

Michelle grudging allows him to remain with Steve and Bucky pleasantly surprises her by keeping himself out of the way when they need to check on him. Natasha coaxes him out of the room long enough to have coffee in the waiting room during one of these checks.

 

During this process, a woman wearing a beautiful coat of pale pink wool walks into the waiting room, holding the hand of a little biracial girl in a matching coat of lovely dove gray.

 

The woman has warm brown eyes and blonde hair, slicked back like a model’s until it looks wet, clinging to her neck. The little girl holding onto her hand can only be around six or seven.

 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the nurse at reception asks, pausing in her typing.

 

“Yes, I’m here to see my son,” she says, running a distracted hand over her hair with her glove. Her daughter, one hand dragging around a fluffy tan rabbit dressed up as a ballerina, is entranced with the aquarium in the waiting room but still does not leave her side. “Steve Rogers. That’s ‘Steven’ with a v, not a p-h.”

 

Bucky sits up straight and Natasha quickly turns to look at her. This woman in no way looks old enough to have children at Steve and Carol’s age – in fact, she barely looks any older than he is, but Carol already hinted that the Johnsons didn’t appear to be normal foster parents.

 

Calling this woman ‘Mom’ would earn Carol more than a few raised eyebrows.

 

“Mama, do they think Steeb gonna die again?” the little girl asks, clutching the little ballerina bunny.

 

“No, Eva, Steve isn’t going to die,” she says. Her voice is calm and soothing, but she begins smoothing her daughter’s coat in a fussy, compulsive manner. “Sometimes his heart just gets really, really tired…”

 

“Mrs. Johnson?” Bucky asks softly, hesitantly. He’s gonna feel pretty stupid if this woman is Mrs. Rogers and she just happens to have a son named Steve with a V.

 

But to his relief the woman turns, first saying “Yes?” and then her eyes take him in and she breathes “James! Oh, I’m sorry – you prefer Bucky, don’t you?” He blinks at the glowing smile that suddenly appears on her face. “It’s excellent to meet you! Please just call me Tandy. Carol’s been gushing about you for months.”

 

“For months, hm?” Natasha repeats, giving Bucky a side-eyed smile.

 

He blushes, and Tandy and Natasha’s smiles grow wider. “Well, I worry about him and he doesn’t usually show a whole of interest, bisexual or not. I’m sure Carol teased him mercilessly for mooning after you.”

 

Bucky wants to melt into the floor as Natasha goes from grinning to straight-up laughing at him. “My husband and I spent weeks mercilessly teasing Bucky for mooning over the cute blonde in the corner.”

 

Natasha has a very solemn conversation with Eva about her little bunny ballerina so that Bucky can give Tandy an escort back to Steve’s room, where the staff are satisfied with his blood oxygen and today he is looking much more alert.

 

He knows that Steve is surprised by Tandy’s appearance when he blurts out “Mom?”

 

“Now what have you done wrong,” she murmurs, bending to kiss his check and brush his sweaty hair from his face. “You only call me that me that when you’re trying to wriggle your way out of a scolding.”

 

Steve looks stricken, as though Tandy has slapped him, so hurt and wounded that she coos “Oh, I’m sorry my love, that was a joke.” She strokes his cheek gently with a leather gloved hand. “I forget…”

 

“Forget what?” he asks hoarsely.

 

She kisses him again, this time upon the top of his head. “You are very sweet when you’re sick, especially when you’re not awake enough to be grumpy.”

 

“Where are Billie and Eva?”

 

“Eva is talking to your nice ginger ballerina friend and Billie is in school. I’m sorry Ty couldn’t be here, he’s still in class.” From her lovely wool coat, she brings out a packet of red licorice. “He insisted I give you this.”

 

With a pleased sound, Steve makes grabby hands at the licorice and Bucky is astonished when he immediately shoves a handful into his mouth and moans with delight. “That’s so good.”

 

“You’d never buy them for yourself,” Tandy recalls with a sigh. Gloves removed, she gently strokes his hair. “You didn’t come for Christmas.”

 

It’s stated gently, without malice or rebuke, but Steve looks down at the packet of licorice as though she’s given him that aforementioned scolding. “Sam and I were on a really important deadline at the time and…well…”

 

“Yes, Carol tells me your holidays were very busy,” she says evenly, glancing at Bucky. “She was also pretty furious with you, by the way.”

 

“Yeah, she might have mentioned that,” Steve says dryly, eyes closed. He looks on the verge of sleep again. “It was unfortunate but out my control.”

 

“Try not to give us any more unpleasant surprises, my love,” she murmurs, giving his forehead another kiss.

 

“You aren’t Ma.”

 

“No, my love, I’m not,” Tandy agrees sadly.

 

“Tandy,” he sighs.

 

“That’s right, baby. It’s Tandy.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

 

“Just rest, it’s okay.” Leaning back in the chair, she gives Bucky a watery smile. “It’s terrible, but sometimes I loved when he was sick.” She pets idly at his damp blonde hair. “It was the only time he let us take care of him.”


	14. a flower of wondrous beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh my god, she wants that scary twink’s dick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some references here involving loss of consent and abuse by a romantic partner, and some rather graphic descriptions of injuries resulting from that abuse.

_Fruntea alba-n parul galben_  
_Pe-al meu brat incet s-o culci_  
_Lasand prada gurii mele_  
_Ale tale buze dulci..._  
_(Your white brow with those golden curls_  
_Will slowly draw near to be kissed,_  
_Yielding as prey to my greedy mouth_  
_Those sweet, red, cherry lips...)_  
-"Dorinta" (Desire), Mihai Eminescu (translation by Brenda Walker)

March 2014

Carol loves office gossip.

 

Well, no, she doesn’t. It makes the workplace a messy shitshow filled with unnecessary drama. She loves office gossip – as long as it’s not _her_ office. SHIELD is technically not her office, and gathering gossip from them is interesting as well as useful in a practical sense. Not only that, but the Head Spook, Deputy Phantom, and Third Ghost are somewhat expected to socialize – or at least keep tabs on – their SHIELD counterparts.

 

This was harder for Tom as Third Ghost to manage, because he did not have a true counterpart. There was no formal position for the third in command at SHIELD, the position had been eliminated decades ago when the organization grew larger, but each specialized department had a leader that he kept his eye on.

 

For Steve this was very easy – as the Director, Fury was well aware of the Underworld’s existence and unlike Stoner, he treated the Head Spook as an equal rather than his subordinate and while he didn’t always take Steve’s advice, Fury gave the observations of his Spooks due consideration.

 

Carol has to be a bit more contained in her interactions with Deputy Hill, but she likes Maria. In fact, Carol is a little sad, both that Maria is not authorized for Underworld clearance and that the Scourge didn’t manage to snap her up for themselves before SHIELD proper got to her.

 

Hm. On second thought, no.

 

Not that she wouldn’t love to have Maria with them, but SHIELD – _Fury_ – NEED Maria in a way that the Scourge never would.

 

While imperfect, as most things created by man were, SHIELD under Nick Fury was a more inclusive, fair, and diverse creature than SHIELD as run by Richard Stoner. Fury and Hill were themselves representatives of that change – a black man with one eye and a woman with a STEM degree would not have gotten this far in Stoner’s world. Fury himself had been selected by a committee of world leaders in a joint meeting with the WSC.

 

Politely eating her cobb salad and eyeing the lemon wedge floating in her iced tea, Carol watches Maria out of the corner of her gaze.

 

It’s taken a few visits to be sure, but now Carol is certain: Maria Hill has a crush on one of the people on their briefing team.

 

Only a handful of the Scourge are authorized to brief the Director on their assignments personally, and those tend to involve matters of some great concern to Fury.

 

Matt was handsome and kind of charming even if he was a bit of a disaster, and you couldn’t find a guy with more heart.

 

Zoe and Karen were both lookers, amputees or not, but Zoe was already attached to a singer in a fairly well-known rock band and Karen was a bit of a handful.

 

Jessica was pretty, witty, and about as mentally put together as a jumbled up Rubik’s cube, but Carol could definitely see the appeal, especially if Jack Daniels and sarcasm were your personal kinks.

 

Maria’s exposure to them, especially Zoe and Karen, would’ve been very limited though, which meant that Carol’s options were likely herself, Steve, and Thomas.

 

Carol may not have _high_ self-esteem, but she thought of it as quite healthy, and she felt certain she’d have noticed if an acquaintance was lusting after her.  

 

Thomas…if it was Tom, Carol was going to have to dissuade her from that interest, but…

 

Well, Maria disliked and distrusted Tom.

 

This was a perfectly valid reaction to have to him, because it was _by design_. Carol and Steve liked to have Tom with them as a partner because people had such an instantaneous and visceral dislike of him that often their suspicions would be so pinned on him that Carol, Steve, or whoever went on assignment with him could slip wherever they liked without notice.

 

Her reaction to him was common, expected, and desired, so Carol didn’t hold it against her.

 

But that left Steve.

 

Not that Carol believed that there was _no_ reason for it to be Steve – she had a missing V-card that admitted she found the man attractive. It was just that someone who had the _expected_ reaction to Tom’s persona was unlikely to have an _unexpected_ reaction to Steve.

 

And, well, yeah...

 

Steve was not the only one getting tired of people having the expected reaction.

 

Women tended to assume that he was straight-up gay, as though bisexuals were a myth and any man under 5’7” could not possibly be straight. Men tended to assume that he was a textbook subby twink and wow, were they surprised when they got the exact opposite of that.

 

This required more investigation.

\---

 _He_ was here.

 

Maria resolutely keeps staring at the screen of her computer, praying that the heat she feels tingle down from her scalp to her chest is not showing over her face.

 

“Deputy Hill,” he murmurs in greeting.

 

As usual, his voice hits her like a bucket of ice water, a chill going down her spine that she masks by turn in her chair and answering his polite nod with a curt nod of her own. “Rogers.”

 

He is so very fucking considerate to her, and Maria can’t decide if she loves it or loathes it. Faultlessly courteous, he is one of the few common staff who doesn’t forget – by accident or design – to address her with her proper title.

 

“Think I might need an update on the hard-drive, it’s starting to lag during surveillance checks.”

 

“I’ll have Tom put it on his to-do list.”

 

He holds doors for her without acting like a smug dickhead, he greets her and bids her farewell on every check-up on Nick’s office. His eyes never stray where they shouldn’t, he’s never made an inappropriate comment to her.

 

And he holds himself like he owns the entire building, has complete command over all of the people in it. Maria doesn’t care that they’re the same height – she recognizes the weight in his cool blue stare.

 

It doesn’t matter how gracious and chivalrous he behaves, she knows what he is, and she wants it more than she’d freely admit. Rogers is the kind of man who could make her cry…and _enjoy_ it.

\---

 _Oh my god_ , Carol thinks to herself. _She wants that scary twink’s dick_.

 

It only took Carol closely examining her during one visit to be able to see it, the way Maria seemed to keep her eyes averted from Steve’s face, but now that she had acquired this knowledge, the question became what she should do with it?

 

“Alright, what’s the matter?” Tom asks, plopping down on the couch beside her where she is watching Project Runway.

 

Slowly, she admits “Someone we know has a crush on Steve.”

 

“Oh, is it Queen of the Hill?” Tom says, affection for the SHIELD Deputy and her brass balls coming through in his voice.

 

Carol stares at him, first flabbergasted, and then angry. “You _knew_?”

 

He blinks in surprise. “I wasn’t aware it was a secret. Every time Steve opens his mouth, she practically swoons.”

 

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” she demands.

 

“Because I was under the impression that you’ve been trying to avoid situations that allow Steve to exercise his precariously held sadistic tendencies.”

 

It’s Carol’s turn to stare at him in surprise, and a little disbelief. “ _What_ …”

 

Tom raises his brows, his mouth quirking a touch at the corner. “Maria Hill is a closet submissive, Carol. And I don’t meet cute little feather ticklers and a few spankings, either.” At the genuine shock on her face, he says “You really didn’t know this, did you? Hill is a hardcore masochist, Carol. That’s why I assumed you haven’t tried setting them up.”

 

“Because Hill likes a bit of slap and tickle?”

 

“Because in the past, you’ve expressed a definite desire to avoid allowing him to indulge in his…less savory personality traits, including his casual relationship with violence and domineering attitude, both of which Maria would encourage.”

 

Carol shakes her head. “He’s tried being a dom, Thomas. He didn’t like it.”

 

“That I find hard to believe.”

 

“So did I, at first,” she say ruefully. “But he doesn’t like bullies, either, and unfortunately, that’s just what a lot of the scene is.” She leans into his side. “If he was in another job, it wouldn’t bother me so much. But he…he already has too much of it and I’m…I’m actually pretty scared, Tom. I want him to be happy, and I want someone to see how amazing he is, but I’m afraid of what could happen to him if Steve started actively training himself to _enjoy_ that.”

 

“He enjoys it now.”

 

Maria, despite an attraction to Steve which seems obvious in hindsight, grimly refuses her offer of a blind date.

 

“Sorry, Danvers. I don’t fraternize in the office, makes life messy.”

 

Carol wondered how many women Maria had seen screwed over because they chose to date a male coworker and let the matter drop. She can’t say that she’s sorry about it, though.

 

Steve and Maria might be compatible, but personally, Carol is hoping he will find someone who understands his dark side, not delight in it.

\---

October 2014

One of the few benefits to becoming the Head Spook was that Steve was no longer required to give a witness statement unless Director Fury requested one. The downside to this was that he still needed to have his evidence reports signed off on and as Head Spook, only two people were now authorized to do that, and they were the last two people he wanted to talk to about this right now.

 

He’s almost embarrassed, really. It wasn’t just that Brock hurt him – Steve’s been hurt before, plenty of times. But this was the first time he hadn’t seen his assignment all the way to it’s conclusion.

 

Steve is even more embarrassed to say his reaction to Brock’s abuse wasn’t a carefully thought out and calculated cost-benefit analysis of the situation.

 

He just felt the white-hot spike of pain spreading through his nerves as Brock’s teeth closed hard around his nipple, and Steve smashed his palm directly into Brock’s nose. Twisting from underneath him to give Brock an additional kick in the nuts, he dragged him, whimpering, towards the front door. Furious and heedless of his own nakedness, Steve and thrown him out into the hallway and slammed the door shut.

 

Brock did try fruitlessly to coax his way back inside, and if he had been using the cold, logical persona of the Head Spook, he would allowed himself to be talked down to keep his target in range. But Steve was filled to the brim with rage and his chest throbbed and when Brock started losing his temper and pounding at the door, Steve yelled back “Just keep making noise, it’ll go in the police report!”

 

As he suspected, Brock had cleared out after that. Unfortunately for him, the man seems to have disappeared, but Fury still needed to know what he’d done – Nick Fury had no interest in keeping an employee who ignored his partner’s ‘no’ and freely and enthusiastically abused their partners.

 

Steve couldn’t submit that report without evidence, which always required an authorized reviewer to sign off on, indicating that all photos, videos, and firsthand statements were true and correct to the knowledge of all parties. It just so happened that he was wearing his evidence.

 

Calling Carol, he says “I need the two of you on the documentation floor – tell Tom to bring the camera.”

 

“You got it, Boss.”

 

Now, Carol isn’t expecting this process to be fun or pretty. The first photo evidence report Steve had ever filed, Ty had nearly gone to lock-up to kill the man himself and the doctor had briefly been worried Steve might lose his left eye. Carol’s first evidence report involved a tetanus shot and lots of antibiotics.

 

She _knows_ that this is not a pretty business, but she still says “ _Steven_ ” when he takes his shirt off.

 

Beside her, she can suddenly feel that Tom has gone very, very still. Because she knows what’s about to happen, Carol “We’ll get the pictures collected. Make sure Steve’s paperwork is ready to send to Fury, I don’t want to fill it out twice because something is missing.”

 

Tom nods without answering her and hands her the camera before exiting the evidence room. Rather than staying in the docs and forms office, he storms down into the records holding suites and punches the door so hard he cracks it down the middle and puts a hole through the wall behind it.

 

Back in the evidence procedures room, Carol calmly checks the camera battery while fighting down nausea. From far away, she hears her own voice murmur “Forward shot first.”

 

She would like to scream and yell and demand Brock Rumlow’s blood but none of those things would help Steve right now and many of them would likely cause Steve to feel anxious and guilty that he handles this too calmly.

 

“Right side.”

 

Steve’s chest looks like someone tried to eat him, and not in the fun way. Pectoral tissues are severely bruised, blood pooling beneath the skin all over the place, and his nipples are both raw and sore-looking. More small pinpricks of blood dot the area immediately surrounding them, which Carol is sure to document. She also captures the hand-shaped bruises at his hip and shoulder where Brock tried to hold him down and force him to stay still.

 

“Left side.”

 

There are the clear indentations of teeth in the skin – deep, painful looking wounds in the thin fragile tissues. These are wounds that would have anyone sobbing in agony, but Carol knows firsthand that this is a particularly sensitive area of Steve’s body. He won’t even wear a shirt if it isn’t made of the right material and washed with the right kind of detergent.

 

He hasn’t even given himself any kind of fucking treatment – everything to preserve the goddamn evidence. Carol tamps down another urge to yell at him, knowing that it won’t change his reckless behavior and whatever he might tell himself, Steve is a victim right now and screaming at him isn’t appropriate.

 

“You need to go to medical,” she says gently instead.

 

He shakes his head with a wry smile. “Nothing they can do. Don’t gimme that look, Carol Ann. I’ve got ointment and numbing cream up in my desk, but there isn’t anything for them to set or stitch. The only medicine I really need is time.”

 

Carol gives a soft, unhappy sigh. “At least let me bandage you up before you put the shirt back on.”

 

It’s a testament to how much pain he must be in that Steve actually agrees to this.

 

She finds Tom leaning against a door and without preamble, says “What did you break?”

 

Grimacing, he steps aside, revealing both the cracked panel of the wooden door and the large hole in the sheetrock behind it from the force of the brass handle slamming into it.

 

“Oh good,” Carol says, then turns and kicks over a filing cabinet with all the force in her body, denting the body with a loud metallic crunch. “Might as well make the call to Karen worth it. She’s going to be pissed off no matter what.”  

 

“Is he okay?” Tom asks quietly, still filled with that unnatural stillness.

 

She tugs on his jacket until she can hide her face in his shoulder, and Tom gently cards his fingers delicately through her golden hair. “He isn’t,” Carol whispers, muffled into his collar. “He definitely isn’t, but he needs us to pretend he is.”

 

“Then that’s what we’re going to do,” Tom says grimly.

\---

December 2018

Bucky loves his little star, loves the way his wildcat will bite and scratch and mark Bucky as his. But sometimes, sometimes when Bucky wants to, Steve will let him be soft and sweet. Will let him dote on and pamper him.

 

But he has to do this the right way.

 

It’s taken him a little while to find what he was looking for, because as far as Bucky was concerned, only the best was going to do. Clint and Natasha had to help him of course, because he didn’t really know how to describe what he was looking for, other than _soft_. He finally does find what he wants, after several trips around the Fashion District.

 

“Do you trust me?” he asks Steve playfully, kisses his neck.

 

“Of course I do,” he replies, half-somber and half-laughing. Steve, in his lap and deliciously naked, tilts his head back to look at Bucky. “What are you so serious about all of a sudden?”

 

“Close your eyes.”

 

Bucky’s heart does a little leap at the sight of Steve’s eyes immediately closing. Passing the beautiful length of dark fabric through his fingers, Bucky drapes it over Steve’s bare torso, his eyelids twitching at the sudden sensation.

 

“Keep them closed,” he murmurs.

 

“Bucky, what are you doing?” Steve sounds breathless, but not frightened.

 

“Unless you’d like me to stop, just keep breathing,” Bucky says, low and hypnotic and soothing. “I want you to just breathe, baby, and enjoy yourself.”

 

The length of cloth was midnight blue, large enough to drape over Steve’s entire body if he wished to, and made of cashmere silk – it was the only thing, in Bucky’s opinion, that even came close to being as soft as Steve’s skin.

 

Steve still doesn’t know what’s happening, face turned trustingly into Bucky’s neck, until Bucky cups his hands over Steve’s chest and rubs that silky fabric over his nipples, gently and sweetly chafing them with the softest substance he could find.

 

It’s the exact opposite of the torture he endured beneath Brock – white-hot pleasure rather than white-hot pain. Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing, knows about the pain that came before this by now, and Steve knows this must be what he intended for him.

 

Steve trembles all over, a soft “ _Oh_ ” leaving his lips, the last coherent sound he can make when Bucky keeps ruining all thought and reason in his brain.

 

“Breathe, _dragule_ ,” he murmurs in Steve’s ear. “Oh, you’re just the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Can you come for me like this?”

 

He does.

 

They lay together in the dark, naked skin and slow heartbeats, twined together on the bed, endless and inseparable. _This_ , Steve thinks, _this is how I’d like to die_.

 

He doesn’t have control over that, he doesn’t know when or where or how he will die. But he does have control over when and where and how he will live.

 

Tracing a slow line over the muscles of Bucky’s chest, Steve murmurs “Bucky Barnes, I love you more than anything.”

 

He smiles, Bucky’s heart leaping beneath his palm at Steve’s words. Hazy and thick, Bucky squeezes the thigh draped over his waist, whispering “I love you more than everything, Steve Rogers.”

 

Inhaling quietly, Steve kisses his chest and collarbone. “You should make me yours, Bucky Barnes.”

 

A bit confused, Bucky says “I thought you were, _stea mea_.”

 

“Forever. I wanna be yours forever.” Steve says, then swallows for his courage “I want to be your husband, Buck.”

 

Bucky’s hand tighten on him, rolling them over so that Bucky can stare into his eyes, even in the dim light, his hands planted on either side of Steve’s head. “Are you asking me, sweetheart? Was that you asking?”

 

A shaky smile. “Yes.”

 

Bucky lets out a long, breathless string of Romanian he doesn’t really understand, switching back to English halfway though “-and the happiest fucking idiot on the planet! _God, yes,_ I want to marry you.”

 

Steve kisses the corner of his mouth. “Then pick any day you want – I’ll be there rain, snow, or shine.”

 

Bucky deepens the kiss, a hot hungry thing. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he growls “First, I’m gonna kiss my husband dizzy.”

 

“ _Oh_ ”

 

"Yeah, sweetheart. Oh." 


	15. dire magicks and odd meetings, part ii

 

May 2018

Moving in together is not as hard as a lot of people told them it would be, and only about half as annoying. Carol encourages them to do it right away – the less Steve’s building becomes storage space for the Scourge, the more he is building his life as a civilian. She was happy as a lark with this development.

 

They did have to delay the actual date because Tom coaxed Steve into turning his studio into one residence and that meant remodeling the entire floor into one large flat, reasoning that he and Carol were no longer in the department, and they’d like to visit. Ty and Tandy would like to visit, probably with Billie and Eva in tow. Clint and Natasha, he argued, would probably appreciate not having to go all the way back to Brighton Beach when they visited, if they didn’t have to.

 

Steve found himself going from converting the studios on either side of the one he lived on – admittedly, one of which he was already using to store his paintings – to renovating the entire floor he resided on. Four bedrooms, a painting studio with a tiny storage room attached, formal dining room, and an office for Bucky to work on the restaurant’s books and financial matters.  

 

The remodeling was honestly a bit tedious and took far longer than either of them wished, but they ended up finding the act of rearranging their lives to fit around each other’s enjoyable, even rewarding.

\---

Steve yanks his junk drawer from out of the cabinets and searches for the key, grumbling under his breath as he digs around. Bucky and Carol sit on the couch, watching and waiting for him to produce the needed item.

 

Brows furrowed, Bucky says “So…you’re telling me that you don’t have any decorations in the apartment, but there’s an entire room next door just filled with nothing but your paintings?”

 

Peggy, dropping off cardboard boxes and packing tape, glares at Steve, loudly dropping her armful of supplies. “Yeah, weird, isn’t that, Steven?”

 

On the couch beside him, Carol snorts but keeps her face firmly buried in her Starbucks macchiato. She and Tom are invaluable resources for Bucky, but Tom only gives him details when he thinks it will embarrass Steve and Carol only opens up to him if Steve won’t, in her words, _work through his fucking issues_. It’s clear she prefers them to sort out their own bullshit before getting her involved.

 

Steve says “Hey, I’m not dating you, leave me alone.” and holds up the key triumphantly. “Ah-ha!”

 

To Bucky, Peggy says “Please don’t let him continue living in an environment that looks like it should belong in a prison block.”

 

Calmly, he answers “Well, that would be pretty terrible for my mental health, so we definitely won’t be doing that.”

 

He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know he’s wincing. “I guess we could pick out some things to decorate with, but I dunno…I should probably just throw them out.”

 

Now Carol looks at him sharply. “No you fucking won’t. If you really want them out of the building, I’ll buy them, just name a price. But you aren’t wasting years of work and a college education to throw your best work in the dumpster.”

 

He shrugs “They aren’t really good enough to sell.”

 

This earns him another snort from Carol. “We both know that isn’t true.”

 

“If you don’t want them, why don’t you let someone buy them?” Bucky asks, confused.

 

“I…”

 

Carol cuts him off “Because Steve’s horribly attached to the emotions he put in each and every one of them, but he doesn’t want to admit it. So he keeps them all, even the ones he can hardly bear to look at.”

 

Steve glares. “Mind your own business, Carol Ann.”

 

“Grow the fuck up, Steven,” she replies succinctly.

 

Bucky expects the room next to do be a lot like Steve’s living space – neat and tidy, but kind of dreary and empty.

 

Well. It is dreary, that’s for sure.

 

While the room is mostly free of dust, all the windows have been blocked off with black sheets, allowing no light in. Crates are packed into every inch of the space, from the floor nearly to the ceiling, with passages just wide enough for a slender person to slink through. He is expecting their labels to be something like “2007-2009” or “College Work” or “Blue Period”. Instead, Carol’s handwriting is all over them in neat half-cursive. The ones within his range of sight are:

 

“Sarah – 2 of 2”

 

“Bad Shit”

 

“Friends and Family – 1 of 3”

  
“Steven’s Weird Fuckery”

 

“Holy shit, Steve,” Bucky says, overwhelmed.

 

“Yes, see, exactly!” Peggy exclaims, for once validated.

 

Conversationally, Carol says to Steve “Tom will take everything in the Rulers of Hell series if you insist on thinning out the pile.”

 

“Rulers of Hell?” he repeats.

 

“Yeah, you know. The ones that look like you spent a summer in a Greek history museum drinking wine, getting stoned, and slitting your wrists,” she says dryly. “That tragic, romantic bullshit. We both know he moons over them.”  

 

Steve sighs and squeezes into the tiny aisles between the crates, searching the rows until he sees a particular crate and then sighs again because it’s buried in the middle of the stack. Shifting the boxes, he finally frees that one he wants and hands it to Carol. It says “Mythology”, this time in Steve’s own writing, and Bucky follows Carol out into the hall as she lifts the lid.

 

Suddenly, he understands why Carol was so furious at the idea that he would throw his art away, and her claims about being stoned in museums make a lot more sense.

 

Steve has recreated Hades – both the place and the person.

 

Draped in a dress the color of dark, dark wine, Carol leans toward a figure kneeling in front of her, blonde curls sweeping over her shoulders as she holds out her hand to them. A pomegranate, Bucky realizes, opened to reveal its jewel-colored seeds. Except that the liquid dripping from Carol’s palm is too bright and thick to be juice. Despite this, her expression is serene, almost affectionate, which is why he notices who the kneeling person is.

 

Bucky didn’t recognize Tom at first with his dark hair so wildly curly, but his face in profile is unmistakable, gazing up at his wife with hungry yearning.

 

The symbolism is obvious and clear with just a few bold colors. Thomas does not care that all Carol can offer is blood and forbidden fruit, he wants her enough to supplicate himself before her and she loves him for it.

 

Bucky feels like he knows more about the two of them than he should – as though he’s seen into a part of their relationship that normally went unnoticed. He sees why Steve compared them to Clint and Natasha. Bucky has never met a couple more in love or less comfortable with acknowledging it.

 

For Clint and Natasha, silence was shame. It was fear, and anger, and horror.

 

For Tom and Carol, silence was safety. Another day they got to come home.

 

They’re careless with each other in a way that from the outside, often looks like straight up cruelty and it’s both brave and horrifying at the same time.

 

Steve has seen what dwells beneath that. It is Tom’s adoration and admiration, and Carol’s quiet and surprisingly gentle affection.

 

The next picture is just a vivid, just as rich with symbolism.

 

A young Steve and Carol sit on a bed, black sheets tangled around their legs, facing each other. On the right, Carol has her fingers in Steve’s hair, weaving a crown of large scarlet flowers around his head. Steve has a chain of beads that look like bone, one end woven around his fingers, while he ties the other end around Carol’s waist. Neither of them are actually looking at one another – Carol looks directly at the viewer, and Steve is staring into the swirling black of the sheets around them.

 

Even as he seems reluctant, Steve is tying Carol to himself with literal and figurative death. Carol, meanwhile, tries to give him beauty, tries to add something poetic and vibrant to his life. But as she’s sitting in the same darkness Steve is, even that carries the echoes of violence – each red petal is the bright lurid color of freshly spilled blood.

 

It feels telling that she watches the viewer while he refuses to acknowledge their existence.

 

The whole series is breathtaking and features all of the people closest to him, with vague hints toward a Greek god. Carol was obviously Persephone. Tom was harder to identify, either Hermes or Pan – in one of the portraits he had horns. Not actual horns, but a pair of golden horns tied onto his head. Tandy and Tyrone seem to be Selene and Helios in reverse, and Peggy rounds out the group, holding a spear as Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war. Steve seems to stand in for the king of hell himself, Hades.

 

Each scene is done in various tones of black and white with splashes of red, from the bright red-orange of a firepit that turns Tandy’s eyes into tiny pricks of fiery light as she gazes directly into the flames, to Peggy’s signature high-saturation crimson lips, to the dark berry nearly-black of the sash around Steve’s slender hips as he sits on the throne of hell, looking a bit bored and lonely.

 

“Steve!” he yells “You ain’t fucking throwing these away, asshole!”

 

There is a long pause before Steve, slightly confused, yells back “…okay!”

 

Behind Bucky, Carol smiles.

 

It isn’t until the room is half-empty, most of the crates packed into the freight elevator and headed for one of the storage rooms upstairs, that Bucky playfully says “I might be jealous. There’s a lot of Carol, even a few of Peggy, but you’ve never painted me.”

 

Stilling, Steve points to a crate on the other side of the room. The original tag was in Steve’s writing – “Scrap”, but that’s been crossed out and replaced with Carol’s odd half-cursive.

 

“For God’s Sake Steven Please Find Jesus”

 

“What does that mean?” Bucky asks, amused.

 

Steve is flushed and embarrassed. “I…she’s just a bitch, okay?”

 

His obvious embarrassment is quickly identified.

 

The ‘scraps’ crate is _nothing but Bucky_ , which wouldn’t be such a shock, but the dates written on the back of each painting are from months, even years, ago.

 

Bucky turns to him, mouth dropped open in shock. The oldest one of course, is a rough working of Zima, head curiously tilted at the bottom of the Triskelion back stairwells. One canvass is just a series of Bucky’s facial expression, with a note tacked on in Carol’s writing.

 

_Steven –_

_A smart man once told me how to deal with Tom: tell him to fuck off or give him a roll in the hay and let him wander off again. You’re picky, but we both know you’d let him get away with a lot._

_Follow your own advice, Steve. Talk the Sergeant into one night and get this out of your system or leave it alone. This is a dangerous pursuit – for both of you._

_Carol_

 

“Baby,” Bucky murmurs, seeing the sick, anxious look on Steve’s face. He kisses the tip of his ear, sliding his hands into his pants pockets. “You know I never coulda let you walk away after just one night, right?” Lower, he adds “You woulda been able to sweet talk me into a lot more than that.”

 

March 2017

Carol was surprised – though far from displeased – when she learned that Steve only took one on-going job after officially retiring, one that required him to keep an eye on Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes for a few weeks, while he got himself set back up in Brooklyn. The Sergeant was a low-risk target, not necessarily stable, but from the sound of it, he also didn’t get violent for absolutely no reason. It was a good sign that Steve was serious about transitioning into the life of a real civilian.

 

It was a job they would have normally given to a rookie – Fury has his concerns but no one really believed that Barnes would turn out to be a problem.

 

She is even more surprised and displeased when she realizes what’s really happened in the five months since Steve left. The Scourge have picked up better than expected – Steve was a good leader and the organization survives because of him rather than in spite of him. Carol will be able to retire at the beginning of June this year. Shaving it down to eight months rather than the eighteen months the three of them had originally planned on wasn’t half bad.

 

After he gives her his briefing, Carol simply stares in silence, finally saying “Oh my god.”

 

“I know – it’s almost like I’ve got a handle on this whole normal person thing.”

 

“No,” she breathes, with a fierce stare. “Steve. _Steven_ , you actually have a crush on this man.”

 

“Carol Ann,” he says warily, shoulders curling defensively.

 

“I wouldn’t tell on you – not that Fury could technically reprimand you, you’re doing this as a personal favor.” She gives him a calculating stare. “Or _are_ you?”

 

Steve runs a tired hand through his hair, getting shaggy since his last haircut had been before he moved back to Brooklyn. “Don’t,” he mutters. “The guy doesn’t even know who I am, Carol. I’m doing this from high-distance, just like you always wanted. We’ve never spoken.”

 

“Technically, you have,” she says with a smirk. “But what’s stopped you from talking to him? You’re not exactly shy and quiet.”

 

Not exactly, no. But Carol has observed that Steve has become…smaller, as a civilian. He’s lost a lot of his confidence, his presence, away from the Underworld. His skills there made him sometimes seem larger than life but without that life, it was as though he’d now remembered his real size and the realization had diminished him.

 

Steve looks away, tapping the countertop.

 

Probably Steve’s least favorite thing was talking about himself, but he didn’t really need to because Carol knew him too well.

 

He likes him – not just attraction, Steve would ignore him without a thought if it was a simple matter of carnal desires, he is used to banishing the inconvenient portions of his sexuality. The last time Carol saw him this flustered was Peggy Carter, which could only mean one thing. Steve doesn’t just want him, no – he likes Bucky Barnes as a human being.

 

 _Alright then_ , Carol thinks. _Time to do my homework_.

 

She could see from the access records that Steve hasn’t actually looked into Barnes’ papers, which doesn’t surprise Carol all that much. They usually only go digging into employee files for a high-danger target, but for anything else it’s best to go in blind – that way your perceptions are not skewed by whatever information sits in the file.

 

And oh, dear lord in heaven, was there a lot to perceive about Barnes’ file.

 

Carol wishes that the worst of it was the classified Winter Soldier project, but from just the sessions he’d had with them that James Barnes’ life was hell long before HYDRA got to him.

 

The Manhattan psychological examiner’s notes kept jumping out at her:

 

… _history of domestic violence_ …

 

… _some evidence of dissociative episodes_ …

_…father…murdered the youngest…_

_Rebecca…hiding in the shed…_

_….finished off the mother_ …

 

The horror ends with the doctor’s conclusion:

 

 _Against all odds James has survived the turmoil of his childhood without succumbing to his father’s history of abuse, even appears driven to reverse it. While comfortable with the use of violence in a professional capacity, he feels strongly averse to it in daily life and James is drawn to people who seem to be helpless, abandoned, or suffering in some manner_ (see attached: _Barton, Fitz, Johnson, Romanov, Simmons_ ).

 

Almost against her will, Carol feels a smile beginning curving her lips up.

 

Steve is not helpless, but he does suffer – silently, constantly, without complaint or hope of relief – and in some ways, he is abandoned, just like she is. Society abandoned both of them to the Scourge. That they lived, survived, even thrived was through pure luck and their own sheer hard work.

 

Yes, she might actually be okay with this. If this was the man he was, she might even reluctantly approve.

 

June 2018

“Steve, you’re the only person I know who can get a head cold at the beginning of the summer.” Despite his words, Natasha’s voice is sympathetic. They are surrounded on all sides by boxes, which Steve is halfway through unpacking. Clint and Bucky have gone to retrieve beer, pizza, hot sauce, and NyQui while they go through the various knickknacks in the new apartment.

 

The only real furniture Steve and Bucky currently own are their bedroom set and some bookshelves. Or rather, Bucky’s bedroom set, since Steve’s old bed was a twin size mattress and his dresser was a set of coat hangers hung up in his shower. Bucky insisted that everything beyond his own room in Clint and Natasha’s apartment had to stay, and Natasha and Bucky both put their foot down regarding all of Steve’s old furniture.

 

( _“I can’t-I can’t live this way, Steve. I’ll go fucking mad, it’ll be like I never left HYDRA’s cage.”_

_“It’s okay, Bucky, we don’t have to keep it. As you can probably tell, but I’m not emotionally attached to most of it.”_

_“Good. Good.”)_

 

Daisy bought them a gigantic bean bag chair as joke but the joke’s on her – they’ll be using it as a couch and dining room table/chairs for the foreseeable future, unlike they can get some decent future.

 

“I’m amazing like that,” he replies hoarsely, and she places a cold cloth over his forehead, making him sigh deeply with relief. Steve idly scratches Morgan behind the ears, feeling the gray tabby’s purr vibrate through his legs. “Thanks.”

 

Sorting through a box Bucky normally kept in his closet, Natasha makes a pleased sound and brings out an old photo album bound in ancient red leather, quickly flipping through the pages.

 

“Hey,” Steve protests. “Slow down – I wanna look at those.”

 

Most of the photographs appear to be from Bucky’s childhood. His mother, and sisters. As loving and attentive as Bucky is in their relationship, he’s very closed off and private about his childhood, which Steve can’t begrudge in the slightest. That doesn’t mean he isn’t curious, though.

 

“I’m looking for a specific picture,” she admits, a bit guiltily. “I want to take it before he can hide the album again and then make my own copy – every time I ask for one, he makes excuses. Ah!”

 

Gazing at the image with a loving tenderness, Natasha says, “This is my favorite picture of our dear boy” and holds it out to him.

 

Steve lets out a wordless sound of awe and affection.

 

Bucky was a fat child, and it’s the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

 

Chubby and awkward looking, Bucky stares at the camera with a hunted, frightened expression, his grey eyes big and wet like only the young and innocent can seem. Even if Natasha didn’t point him out, his pouting lower lip and the cleft in his chin would have given him away.

 

“How old was he?” he asks softly.             

 

Natasha answers “Thirteen. I think…I think maybe he didn’t fit in well at school when he was young. They moved to Brooklyn when he was eight. He would’ve been used to being called Iacob in Constanța, and his accent was heavy. It’s why his English is so good now – he didn’t want anyone being able to tell he didn’t fit.”

 

Steve chews his lip. Sometimes, it’s easy for Steve to believe Bucky is some sort of perfect – sometimes irritatingly so – man. But he thinks about this chubby boy, with his foreign accented-English and his wet, trusting grey eyes. This boy whose father is cruel to his sensitive, gentle soul. Who tries to protect his sisters with his body instead of theirs, and desperately tries to hide the way he feels about the slender redhaired boy who plays the piano in the school choir.

 

That boy is his kindred, his sweetheart.

 

Steve wonders what would’ve happened if they’d met at a younger age, if somehow they could have prevented some of each other’s hurts – or maybe, just made them worse instead.

 

Later that night, laying in bed Steve watches Jenny and Morgan crawl all over Bucky. Jenny has always been a friendly, curious cat but Morgan seems to have decided after nearly six month together that Bucky is a friend with Petting Hands, second only to Food Hands.

 

When Bucky looks over, Steve has an achingly sweet smile for him, leaning over to give him a soft, lingering kiss on the lips. Dazed, he asks, “What’s that for?”

 

Steve’s answer makes his heart leap up. “Nothin’. I just love you, is all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as cool as all of this was, I'm honestly so stoked for the next chapter - I've been trying for basically half of this story to get to it.


	16. the kids are(n't) all right, part iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god we have one more chapter left I am not okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how to post warnings for this chapter, so just...take care of yourself, everyone.

****

November 2020

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous in his entire life, and that really is saying something because he was the best man at his friends’ wedding, he got married to the most amazing person on the entire planet, he was a gay man in the U.S. Army, _and_ he was a prisoner of war.

 

The United States Ambassador to the U.N. is a lovely Hispanic woman in her early forties who greets them warmly. “Hello, I’m Angela del Toro. Steven, good to see you! It’s been awhile.”

 

“Angela helped out in my department,” Steve says easily, Bucky’s eyes widening in instant understanding. “You always were a terrific public speaker.”

 

“How’s Matt? I never have time to get over to Hell’s Kitchen anymore. Still in that on-again, off-again with Elektra?”

 

“Currently on!” Steve says brightly. “As you’ll probably have guessed, this handsome devil is my husband, and these are our friends, Clint and Natasha Barton.”

 

Surprised and pleased, Angela says “All four of you are on the candidate list today?” A frown pulls at her feature. “Oh…you aren’t intending to split them up, are you? I know that they’re a handful, but…”

 

“Oh, no,” Natasha assures her. “We’re only here for Yelena Belova, the girl brought over from Latveria.”

 

“Oh, excellent! Kazimir – excuse me, _Mister Lebedov_ – is a bit on the grumpy side, but a very efficient diplomat, and more importantly, he wants what’s best for his children, and I’m sure you won’t have much trouble.”

 

Her use of the phrasing ‘his children’ was even more reassuring for Natasha – it meant Kazimir viewed Yelena’s placement more as a personal responsibility than a function of diplomatic relations. However, there was a slightly troubling part of that sentence…

 

“That implies that you think that _we_ will,” Steve observes with distaste.

 

Angela’s mouth presses into a thin line of cranberry-colored lipstick. “Sokovian views on the LGBT community are somewhat antiquated. Augustin will take some convincing, but luckily, I’ve enlisted some back-up that will help us persuade him that this is for the best. Kazimir is free first, so we’re just going to wait a moment for my colleague from Russia to join us.”

 

“ _Russia_?” Natasha repeats, immediately going a bit tense. “What do they have to do with this?”

 

Angela laughs lightly. “One of their citizens is attempting an international adoption,” she reminds her. “His presence isn’t really needed here, I’ve invited him more as a professional curtesy. If an American immigrant was in Britain as a resident and trying to adopt a child from India, I’d be very disgruntled if my British counterpart neglected to inform me. It’s more of a formality, but it’s one we have to carry on with as I don’t have any desire to get Daniil annoyed with me.”

 

“I was not under the impression I was that intimidating,” a mild voice says from down the corridor.

 

A tall, lithe man with dark blonde hair in business casual approaches from one of the offices. Angela’s smile is friendly and genuine. “No,” she agrees “But you’re less of a pain in the neck than most people.”

 

“High compliments,” he says dryly, and holds out his hand to first Natasha, and then Clint. “You must be Natalia and Clinton – as you have probably guessed, I am the Russia Federation’s representative, Daniil Sidorov.”

 

Daniil has a gently emphasized accent, not unlike Natasha or Bucky whenever they get emotional. He is not a handsome man in the traditional sense, but the polite and aloof way he holds himself and the striking color of his eyes – the rich amber of old gold coins – make him so. “Let us go and see Mister Lebedov.”

 

“Bucky and Steve, you guys can wait here for a few minutes, we’re just going to get Yelena’s papers taken care of and make sure Kazimir has no objections.”

 

Kazimir Lebedov is around Angela’s age, and looks almost like he could be Yelena’s relation. Like her, he has pale blonde hair and blue eyes. His style of dress is more formal than Daniil’s, a proper suit with finely pressed pants and well-tailored jacket, and he stands with the easy, practiced grace of someone used to being watched and scrutinized. “Mr. and Mrs. Barton, hello. Ms. Del Toro, Mr. Sidorov, it’s always a pleasure.” He gestures for them to sit and as soon as they are, says without preamble: “So, you would like to keep Yelena in America.”

 

“And you don’t want to do that,” Clint guesses, before he can stop himself.

 

“I do not,” Kazimir agrees evenly, with his pale, piercing stare. “I do not particularly like the idea of having my country’s top export becoming refugees and orphaned children. Particularly a child of Yelena’s…delicate circumstances, having lost her caretakers twice over.”

 

“ _Twice_?” Natasha repeats, exchanging a look with Clint. “I’m sorry, _what_? I know that her family was killed in the flooding after the lake dams broke…”

 

A spasm of expression comes over Kazimir’s face, something like irritation, before it is gone. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled, Mr. and Mrs. Barton. Yelena was an orphan _before_ the flood. Both parents were killed in an auto accident. Her grandmother became her caretaker and her uncle was their primary provider.” With heavy, sad sigh, Kazimir adds “She was nearly left in the city – they found her laying next to her uncle’s body and the rescue team thought she was dead.”

 

Clint makes a quiet sound of distress before Natasha squeezes his hand.

 

Carefully, Angela says to him “I understand your misgivings, both about Latveria’s status going forward and about how fragile Yelena’s emotional wellbeing is…”

 

“It is not just that,” Kazimir admits. “In America, she will be American. Her heritage will be gone forever. Her language, her home, her family. Gone. I don’t feel entirely comfortable with that, especially for an older child, such as herself. She remembers this, remembers them. I’m not certain it’s right to take that away from her.”

 

“ _Ona nichego ne poteryayet_ ,” Clint says, to Kazimir’s visible surprise. Apparently, no one thought to tell the man that Natasha’s American husband was also fluent. “We hadn’t heard about her grandma and her uncle, but she won’t lose them. She won’t lose her home or her heritage. We want being with us to _add_ something to her life, not take it away.”

 

“You say she’s delicate, and I agree,” Natasha says quietly. “But she’s also curious, and vibrant, and Yelena needs an environment where she can explore, and learn, and ask questions. Staying locked up in the care center isn’t going to give that to her, and it seems cruel to make her wait for a home back in Latveria, when we both know that may take _years_ , if it happens at all.”

 

Kazimir stills, looking between the husband and wife before giving a short, tight nod. “Very well – I will speak with her, but unless something truly unfortunate occurs, I will agree to sign the documents.”

 

They leave the office, realizing only then that Daniil had been standing near the door the entire time, silent as a shadow. He shakes Natasha’s hand and says, “You were as interesting as I thought you’d be, Mrs. Barton” before shaking Clint’s hand too, with a polite but brief “A pleasure, Mr. Barton” and leaving.

 

“One down and two to go,” Angela says cheerfully. “Let’s check up on Steve and Bucky – Tereza should be on her way.”

 

“Here,” a young woman in the waiting room says absently. She finishes a line of writing in her notes before standing to greet them. “Tereza Dumitru, representative of România for the United Nations.”  

 

Steve begins to wonder if Romania is filled with people who are all descended from lesser gods. Tereza looks younger than Natasha, with somber gray eyes like Bucky’s, and waves of blue-black hair. Her voice is husky and almost musical, with a noticeable, lilting accent.

 

A bit uncomfortable, Bucky says “Um, it’s an honor to meet you, but…”

 

“ _Onoarea este a mea, Iacob_ ,” Tereza says solemnly, with real notes of respect in her voice. Bucky is well known in certain circles of his birth country, and well-liked. “I’m sorry to have surprised you both today. Angela thought Augustin might take some convincing.”

 

“You think you’ll be able to do that?” Steve asks a bit anxiously. That the only thing standing between them and their new children is a bureaucratic homophobe makes his skin crawl, but there isn’t anything he can do but attempt to convince the man.

 

Voice lowered, Angela glances around their little group and says “Tereza is an excellent stateswoman, who knows the politics of the area very well. The fact that Bucky is also a natural-born citizen merely makes inviting her convenient, because it will look more legitimate. If not for that, I might’ve had to ask Violetta of Hungary, whom Augustin does not like, or Simo from Serbia, who would only agree with his position.”

 

Wryly, Tereza says “Augustin will not like me anymore than Violetta by the end of this conversation, but I see the logic of Angela’s argument.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“The Brebans will not find more suitable guardians,” Tereza says calmly, without any flattery. “I do not mean you will be good parents, though I am certain you will be very excellent – I mean that if Augustin does not sign them over to you, no one else is going to take them. They will be split up and either shuffled from place to place or committed to a psychiatric care facility, and I think everyone would prefer to exercise all other options first.”

 

“ _Definitely_ ,” Steve and Bucky agree firmly.

 

In the end, while Augustin Oláh does try to argue against it, tries to hedge his bigoted beliefs in flowery language until Bucky thinks Steve is going to lose it and punch him in the face, they are triumphant.

 

“It is simply against Sokovian law,” Augustin says smoothly, staring out the window and not bothering to address any of them directly. “Not only is same-sex adoption not allowed within our borders, but we do not recognize your _marriage_ , Mister and…Mister Barnes.”

 

Tereza destroys him.

 

“In România, Ia- _James_ is very well known, Augustin,” she says lightly, bringing a heavy flush to Bucky’s face. “He is a _national hero_ , and I do not think Prime Minister Dăncilă would enjoy hearing that the Sokovian government has denied him this request, especially given that he and Steven only wish to provide Ionela and Istvan with a happy home. I also don’t think the _American press_ would be pleased to discover that Sokovia denied an American veteran the chance to provide a home for two children who desperately need it, just because his spouse is a ‘mister’ instead of a ‘missus’.”  

 

“I do not take kindly to being threatened, Tereza,” Augustin says, narrowing his coal-dark eyes.

 

Patiently, she says “I have not threatened you, Augustin, I merely wish for you to consider the severity of the consequences you acquire by refusing such a simple request. I don’t want to return to Her Excellency to tell her that I couldn’t get one of the most beloved figures in the land the only thing he has ever asked for.” Not only does this _sound_ damning, it has the benefit of being true – the fact that Bucky wasn’t the one to ask for her help is immaterial.

 

With a helpful kindness so sincere, it’s nearly terrifying, Tereza adds “Sokovia does not have a good record for this community, and showing that you are willing to compromise is good for it’s image in the eyes of the world. I also think we both know that Istvan and Ionela _need_ very high quality care. James and Steven will have the resources to provide that.”

 

Displeasure on every one of his narrow features, Augustin concedes. “Very well.”

 

Grinning from ear to ear as they leave the room, Bucky whispers “You should have Tereza recruited for the department.”

 

“Oh, dear god, no,” Steve mutters back. “I don’t want to create any conflict that stops her from becoming the next _Her Excellency_.”

 

“You think?” he asks, looking pleased.

 

“Prime Minister Dumitru, just give it fifteen or twenty years.” 

 

December 2020 – Brighton Beach

Natasha rolls over and is not entirely surprised to find Yelena half-laying on top of Clint. Glancing at her husband, she also finds that Clint’s eyes are already open. Keeping her voice down, Natasha says “Did she stay up with you guys?”

 

“No,” he murmurs, still half-asleep. “Peggy made us buttered rum just before midnight and I could hear her crying in her room. Wasn’t even awake, just…yeah. Tried to put her back to sleep, but she wouldn’t let me go again.”

 

Clint has been subconsciously rubbing Yelena’s back the whole time, his hand beginning the motion without any cognitive effort on his part, which makes Natasha smile faintly. Once every few nights, Yelena had something like night-terrors – she was never quite awake, but she would scream or cry uncontrollably. If she was semi-conscious, the only thing that made her happy was Clint, and she would refuse to be separated from him until morning.

 

The phrase ‘ _found with her uncle’s body’_ always went through their minds during those moments. Natasha has a suspicion that Yelena doesn’t actually remember that, has placed it somewhere in the back of her mind and the terrors are her mind’s way of nudging the memory back to her conscious self.

 

“My poor girl,” she murmurs, and kisses her temple, snuggling a bit closer so that they are both kind of using Clint as a pillow.

 

It’s possibly the best job he’s ever had. It takes another three hours for the two of them to be jostled awake again.

 

“ _Mama_.”

 

They both stare at each other, holding their breath. Is she talking to Natasha or is she addressing some phantom in her dreams?

 

Yelena tugs on Natasha’s sleeve, drowsy but aware of her surroundings. “Mama, can _we see_ Nela and Fane again today?”

 

Natasha makes a noise embarrassingly close to sob before she catches herself. “Yes we can, Lenka. But first you have to eat breakfast _._ ”

 

“Oh _._ Can Papa make _the thing with_ the eggs?! In the bread, like a _birdie_?” Yelena has a decent grasp of English but her attempts to form sentences were often a lisping row of words interspersed with Russian when she couldn’t remember the proper English phrasing.

 

Natasha grins up at Clint, who looks suspiciously watery-eyed. Giving the top Yelena’s head a fierce kiss, Clint says “Of course I can, baby.”

\---

She remembers a lot, and a lot she remembers is good.

 

But sometimes, it isn’t.

 

Yelena remembers the cold, and the dark, and the wet. Remembers Mitya telling her stories, getting quieter and quieter as they waited for the boats to come. “I’m really warm, Lenka. Here, take my coat. Ah, the snow looks just like frosting!”

 

She tells herself that Uncle Mitya is only sleeping when he goes silent, even though she knows what has happened to him, really. It’s happened to Babushka already. But she has to tell herself that because she is draped over him, and somehow she can’t bear the idea of just getting up and leaving him there. She knows that she should get up and call for help, try to save him, but there is no one around to call for, and she shivers under Mitya’s coat and clings to the front of his shirt, even though his chest isn’t moving anymore.

 

Yelena can’t stand the thought of leaving him there, all alone, in the dark and cold. Her funny Mitya, just freezing all by himself. So, she huddles in the coat and shivers and gets really, really sleepy.

 

And when Yelena wakes, she is somewhere new, and the people there tell her Mitya is gone (as though she doesn’t know that!). But she still startles awake at night and the only thing that can leave her mouth is a scream, because underneath her head, there is no heartbeat.

 

Mama and Papa talk to her about that, and then one day, Mama puts this pretty machine in her room that makes Yelena’s ceiling the sky, and it sounds like the ocean. Like a heart that beats constantly inside her pillow.

 

Sometimes she still likes to sleep beside Mama and Papa, though. Just because.

 

December 2020 – Red Hook

Because neither of them was dumb enough to acquire a hangover last night, Steve can mostly see straight even though it’s four in the morning. Glasses nearly falling off his face, he stirs cream into Bucky’s coffee and listens to the sniffling in the room next door, frowning unhappily.

 

They’ve done this nearly every night for the past five weeks, but that doesn’t mean they’ve gotten used to the heartbreak of this routine.

 

Right on time, Bucky walks in, carrying Ionela in his arms. Despite being eleven, she and Istvan are both light as feathers, and at least according to Bucky, they require barely any effort to lift. They are underweight for their size, but Steve suspects this is more a factor of Bucky being able to lift a small car.

 

Ionela clings to Bucky’s neck, a blank-eyed stare on her face as she rests her head on his shoulder, both cheeks streaked with tears. Istvan comes in behind them, appearing to hide behind Bucky’s bulk without actually getting too close to him.

 

“Hey, baby,” Steve murmurs, handing Bucky the coffee and reaching out to stroke her messy dark hair. Ionela blinks slowly at him. “How are we doing, sweetheart? Ah… _ce…ce mai faci,_ _puişor_?”

 

Bucky nods proudly. Steve is a good linguist, and while he’d picked up plenty of short Russian and Romanian phrases during their relationship, the nine weeks before they gained custody of the twins were spent in a crash-course of learning.

 

It was torture and Bucky is somewhat amazed they hadn’t gotten divorced.

 

Steve’s technique for getting caught up was as much immersion as possible. Food and drink had to be asked for in Romanian. Love-making – intimacy of any kind – had to be conducted in Bucky’s first language. English television or audio programs were banned from the house. All their conversations were done in Romanian and while at first he had to suffer through Steve butchering every other word, within the first two days his pronunciation had adjusted itself enough to be bearable. (“Tell me how to fix it then! I wanna see you read _six words_ of Gaelic, then we can talk about butchering, _James_.”)

 

Of course, they still needed Ionela and Istvan to be proficient in English to be able to go to school, but Steve was concerned about not understanding his own children when they wanted or needed something, and Bucky could see the logic in that. That didn’t mean he had to enjoy the process it took to get there.

 

“ _Vreau Stefan_ ,” she whimpers, reaching for Steve.

 

“ _Let Steve sit down first, honey. I know he’d love to carry you, but you’re a big girl and he’s old.”_

 

Because Steve is not about to cuss out his husband in front of two eleven-year-olds, he sticks his tongue out at Bucky, getting a reluctant and exhausted giggle from her. Istvan continues hovering nearby, out of reach but always watchful.

 

Tyrone and Tandy bought them a rocking chair that both initially assumed to be a gag gift, but it’s used so frequently that they’re no longer so sure that is was. Bucky waits for Steve to sit down before dropping Ionela down in his lap, skillfully arranging her so that most of her weight is carried by the chair rather than Steve – she isn’t that heavy, but neither is Steve. He doesn’t have to look at him to know that Istvan is settling onto the nearby armchair.

 

 He turns and gives an internal sigh at the wary way Istvan watches them.

 

Bucky knows that Ionela needs time and attention, and they’re happy to give as much of both as she needs, but he feels that Istvan is barely getting any – not enough for any child, let alone a child of his circumstances. Even more distressing, Istvan not only doesn’t have a problem with being ignored, he seems to _expect_ it. He doesn’t know how to communicate that Istvan can ask for more. That he _should_ ask for more, and Bucky doesn’t want to push him to accept them.

 

It’s a thought to put a pin in for later, preferably when they both aren’t so tired they’re on the verge of hallucinating.

\---

Istvan’s favorite person is Yelena Belova.

 

Well. No.

 

His favorite person is his twin sister Ionela.

 

But Yelena Belova is a surprisingly close second. For the first two weeks, they saw her nearly every day and she barely said a word. Then, as if a dam had burst open, she talked almost nonstop. She was perfectly unphased by the fact that he and Ionela barely understood a word she said – he and Ionela were learning English slowly, but Yelena’s was better than theirs and she sometimes swapped out words for Russian so that the twins were never certain which language she was speaking, because it was basically all Greek to them.

 

Regardless, she had no problem with getting them to play with her.

 

Yelena manages to combine two things he didn’t think were possible: she is honestly kind, and absolutely fearless.

\---

“Oh, she’s so quiet and shy!” Carol mocks, laughing as they watch Yelena grab each twin by one wrist and drag them both off, quite willingly, over to the swing-set. “What absolute bullshit – for weeks, I heard about this demure little princess and you two seem to have a pirate queen on your hands.”

 

“She called us Mom and Dad this morning,” Clint bursts out, unable to keep it in any longer. His grin is so wide Carol wonders if his face will split.

 

Bucky looks a bit jealous and put out. “Ionela mostly wants Steve and Istvan is basically hands-off.”

 

Steve does not comment – he is watching the children.

 

The twins have entirely opposite ways of handling what has happened to them. Ionela seems determined to put it all in the past, as if everything that came before was a terrible dream, only her nightmares lingering to haunt her. Istvan is unable to leave any of it behind and as a result is skittish and leery, always looking out for Ionela, but otherwise distant and silent.

 

Yelena has semi-bullied Istvan into pushing her on the swing – not that Istvan has put up much of a fight. In fact, he seems to handle her with the long-suffering indulgence of an older brother. An older… _huh_.

 

“Bucky…” Steve asks slowly. “How…how did you take care of your sisters? Besides dealing with your dad, I mean?”

 

Uneasily, Bucky says “Made sure they got food. Made sure they were clean. If they were scared, I told them stories. If they were sad, I made them smile.”

 

“And you would’ve thought of yourself last,” Steve breathes, abruptly kissing his husband’s cheek before standing from the table. “We’ve got this wrong, we’ve been doing this the wrong way.”

 

“Uh…yeah?” Bucky says uncertainly. “You think so?”

 

Steve simply says “Istvan is _you_ , Buck. Carol, a quick second.” Letting her catch up with him, he turns and says, “Did you ever feel like Mom and Dad neglected you to take care of me?”

 

“No,” she says immediately, then pauses. “I mean, yes, kind of, but my problems were just less urgent than yours. Usually. I wouldn’t say I was neglected, so much that they were using two different methods to handle us.”  

\---

Istvan doesn’t remember his mother’s face, only knows that she had very dark hair. Dark like the night sky was dark, a pool of oil and ink, and her hands were very soft and gentle. Like Bucky, she called them _Nela_ and _Fane_. She loved them, and while she was there, life was simple and perfect.

 

He knows from living with Aunt Lucia that his mother’s name was Adriana, and that he and Nela did not have a father, which was why his grandparents disowned her. He does not know how or why, but when they were four, Adriana died, and they went to live with a distant cousin of hers, Dražen Braben.

 

Dražen genuinely cared about them, and was especially fond of Nela. His wife Zora, however, did not like them very much. They had a baby, a little boy, and she seemed to view the twins as intruders in her son’s home. Dražen would come home from work to find bruises on Ionela’s arm and then he’d get upset with his wife. They’d yell at each other and, at least for a little while, it would be better.

 

One day, Dražen came home to see that Istvan had a black eye and when he demanded to know what happened, Zora sputtered something about him talking back to her.

 

“I’m sorry about this, Fane and Nela,” Dražen told him quietly that night during a car ride across town. “I thought…I’m not sure what I was thinking. I promise, I’m going to figure something out for both of you.”

 

When he is a bit older, Istvan will realize that Dražen had probably been at least a little in love with Adriana, and that was what made Zora so angry and jealous. Istvan and Ionela were both visions of their mother, but Nela especially. It didn’t matter to Zora at all that the woman was dead and her children were helplessly dependent on her.

 

They were taken to live with Aunt Lucia after that, at seven years old.

 

Lucia was neither a cruel nor a hard woman, but she already had six children of her own and like Zora, her husband had no use for two more mouths to feed, especially when they weren’t even his.

 

_No crying, Fane, you’re a big boy._

_No whining, Fane, you need to take care of the other children._

_Sit still, boy, for heaven’s sake._

_You’re the oldest, you don’t need help._

_You’re the biggest, let them have your share._

_Take your spanking, Fane, and don’t cry about it!_

 

He did his best, because Lucia made sure there was always food on the table and a warm bed for them, and while they got hit sometimes, at least _she_ didn’t do it for no reason beyond her own whims. He watched out for Nela just like he always did, and looked after the other six, and never bothered wishing for things he knew he wouldn’t get. When the city was bombed, she and her husband decided they didn’t have room for them anymore, and Fane didn’t expect anything else.

 

Bucky and Steve are…kind of different.  

 

They…don’t have any other kids.

 

At first, Istvan assumes that they are going home with Yelena’s parents, but Bucky tells him that Yelena is just like them – Clint and Natasha are not her parents and she has been adopted. They picked Yelena out, just like Steve and Bucky picked out Istvan and Ionela.

 

He is confused – he assumed when Bucky and Steve promised that they would leave the center, that they would be finding _other_ people for them. He did not realize that two men would be allowed to take a child home.

 

And then Steve tells him something even more shocking: he and Bucky are not just _together_ , they are _married_ , have said their vows in a church, and are recognized in the eyes of god. Istvan didn’t even know that was possible.

 

His whole life, Istvan has been told that the urges that have recently begun blooming beneath his breast bone are not just unwanted, they are unnatural. Disgusting. Evil.

 

Istvan doesn’t know a whole lot about sex, or romance – or really, just love in general – but the way that Steve and Bucky act…it doesn’t seem unnatural, disgusting, or evil to him.

 

They are…nice to each other.

 

Which sounds like a silly thing, but he has never lived with a couple who really seem to _like_ , let alone _love_ , one another. He has never seen them hit one another and his English isn’t good, but he’s pretty sure they don’t call each other names.

 

Bucky and Steve don’t grab the twins or hit them or yell at them.

 

Ionela dropped a glass and broke it their third day in the Barnes’ house, and the whole room went still. Istvan was prepared to jump in front of her, just in case – Steve probably didn’t hit too hard, but he had to be ready. But all he said was “ _Get a napkin for the water. Let Bucky help you. No, don’t touch the glass, Nela_.”

 

Because they don’t have any other children, Fane and Nela don’t spend the whole day babysitting. They aren’t expected to help with breakfast or dishes or the laundry – they do have to pick up their toys, but they _actually have_ _toys_. They have _toys_ , and aren’t expected to take the least of what they’re given or handed someone else’s cast-offs, and told to give up whatever they have whenever someone else wants it.

 

During the day, Steve teaches them English and lets them play with his pencils and paints, stacks and stacks of brand new paper waiting just for them.

 

Yelena and her redheaded mother come to visit, and they get to play with her, but Natasha and Steve bring in their lunch, Nela and Fane aren’t expected to do that.

 

They play with her, but they aren’t expected to take care of her.

 

He has to admit that they take really good care of Nela, too. He doesn’t need a lot, and for himself, he wouldn’t mind staying in the center, but Nela should have nice things and people who care about her.

 

Bucky and Steve are good and kind people, but they should have a littler kid, someone cute they can fawn over, and cuddle with. Ionela is, and they coo over her at night when she cries and yells out for them, but they had to take quiet, restless Istvan with her. He isn’t cute, and he can take care of himself. He’s too old a child for hugs and cuddles. There isn’t even any work for him to do here.

 

He feels a little bad, honestly – they must be pretty disappointed, but they’re nice enough not to say so.

\---

“I’m still not sure what you mean,” Bucky admits, Steve settled in deliciously in the space beneath his left arm. “About Istvan being me.”

 

Steve hums softly at the back of his throat. “I mean, we can’t wait for Istvan to feel comfortable enough to ask for attention. It doesn’t matter how needy he is, he won’t ask. I’m not sure if he thinks he _doesn’t_ need it or if he just thinks Ionela needs it _more_.” With a fond kiss on Bucky’s lips, he says “Buck, you always think of yourself last, and Fane does, too.” 

 

This time, they don’t even fall asleep – they’re still on the couch when Istvan walks out of the room. “ _I-I don’t know what happened_ ,” he stammers “ _I-I don’t know what’s wrong…!”_

 

They immediately stand and follow him and for a moment, Steve has terrible visions when he sees the red stain spreading around Ionela’s body, before his logical brain catches up with him and realizes what’s going on here. He and Bucky share an ‘ _oh holy shit’_ look.

 

It’s not that they didn’t know this was going to happen eventually, it’s just that they assumed they’d have more time to prepare for it.

 

They were both essentially raised by single mothers, so neither of them are particularly disturbed by the concept, but the visual is a little scary. So is Ionela whimpering against her pillow, curled up into a ball on the mattress. Bucky kneels beside the bed and gently cups her head so that she will open her eyes.

 

“ _Chiar doare, Tătic_ ,” she whispers, a tear falling down her cheek.

 

“ _Oh, puişor_ ,” he breathes, both touched and concerned “ _Stay still, we’re just going to get you cleaned up_.”

 

Bucky gets his arms beneath her before lifting her and glancing down at the sheets, quietly asking Steve “Is there supposed to be this much? On her first time? I thought…I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen until she was older…”

 

Equally quiet, Steve says “I don’t… _think_ so, but let’s not lose our heads yet. Put her in the tub until I can find her some sanitary products. I’m calling Natasha for emergency advice.”

 

“Hey,” Natasha greets, half-asleep “What’s the problem?”

 

“Nela just got her first period, and it’s really…a lot? There’s a lot of blood and she’s already having cramps. Is that supposed to happen?” He’s speaking to Natasha, but watching Istvan, who is sitting on the couch with unnaturally straight posture.

 

“It can,” she answers, reassuringly calm. “I assume you don’t have pads and tampons yet?”

 

“Nope,” Steve says glumly, kicking himself for their poorly prepared state.

 

“Alright, let me grab the car, I’ll make a quick stop at the store and be right there. In the meantime, just give her something for the pain. And Steve?”

 

“Yeah?” he asks, already opening a bottle of aspirin.

 

“You’re doing a good job,” she says softly.

 

“We don’t have any proper supplies for her,” he argues, frustrated.

 

“Yep, but you aren’t freaking out like total idiots and when you couldn’t figure out what to do, you asked the closest expert. Trust me, Steve, you’re doing well. I’m already in the car.”

 

Bucky has elected to put Ionela in the bathtub still fully clothed, since he isn’t super comfortable with undressing a minor, even if she calls him ‘dad’, and he kind of assumes that once covered in blood, there isn’t a whole lot more damage some water is going to cause.

 

Vaguely, he recalls his mother using a hot water bottle but…what about that was helpful? The heat? The pressure? Both? He isn’t sure.

 

Natasha never got cramps, but gradually became more nauseous until her diet narrowed down to white rice and ginger ale for a couple days, and then she was fine. He and Clint generally fetched her said items whenever asked for and left her in peace whenever requested, in case migraines also became a factor.

 

Half-hanging out of the tub, with her lower body still submerged, Ionela leans over the bath to cling to him. She’s distressed by the pain, but doesn’t seem overly _confused_ by her circumstance.

 

It doesn’t seem fair, somehow, that this had to be so painful so soon. She was such a little girl, and still so young. But then again, he could write a twenty-volume encyclopedia on things that weren’t fair.

 

Bucky murmurs soothing nonsense and rubs her back until Steve comes in holding a pair of aspirin and a glass, and says, “Natasha’s on her way, she’s just gonna stop at the store first because she is an _actual_ saint.”

 

“Awesome. _Ionela, can you swallow these for me? They should make your tummy feel better_.” He…he doesn’t know the right words for ‘uterus’ or ‘vagina’, which he has never noticed until this very moment. For god’s sake, he’s a gay man and he moved to America at the age of eight. Translating Natasha’s advice is going to take a quick dictionary search, though. If they have to do this in Romanian, he’s going to do it right.

 

Though he’s concerned for Ionela, Steve would like to get into the habit of recalling that they have _two_ children, not one, and goes back to check on Istvan. After the initial alert, he has fallen as quiet as ever, holding his tense, mysterious silence.

 

Still sitting on the sofa, his fingers trapped between his clenched thighs as though holding himself still by sheer force of will, Istvan glances up at him and asks in heavily accented English “Ionela is…okay?”

 

“Yes, Fane. _Ea e bine_.” Slowly enough to telegraph his moments, Steve brushes away Istvan’s bangs. Warm and proud, he tells him “ _Ai facut bine_.”

 

Staring at his lap, Istvan clenches his teeth together and nods tightly in acknowledgment, muttering a nearly inaudible ‘thank you’.

 

A bit disappointed with this reaction, Steve tells himself that getting Istvan to show affection might take a while, that they need to be patient with him. He thinks about asking him if he wants a drink and then realizes Istvan will probably say ‘no’ whether he wants one or not. Pulling out a saucepan, he adds half milk and half water to the pan before pulling the tin of masala from the cupboards along with a bowl of coconut sugar.

 

Last week, he made the twins masala chai when Peggy and Angie came to visit, knowing that it was Angie’s order at every café they’d ever been to.

 

Istvan drank his in under five minutes, but Ionela only drank half of hers and gave the rest to him, leading Steve to suspect that he’d really, really liked it but hadn’t had the courage to ask for more.

 

Just as the milk warms up, Natasha opens the door with her spare key. “Hey.”

 

“Thanks for coming so late. Bucky put her in the tub until we could figure out a hygiene solution – go right in, she’s still in her pajamas.”

\---

Natasha really has to commend Bucky on the way he handles this whole thing. He keeps himself very calm, dutifully translating all of Natasha’s instructions on using a pad and putting in tampons while Ionela sits in the tub of pink-tinged hot water, her dark eyes darting between them.

 

“Um,” she says, eyeing the tampon that Natasha holds up with more than a little trepidation. “Must I…use that?”

 

Bucky doesn’t need Natasha’s help for that one. “ _Nope, no,”_ he says firmly. _“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, puişor.”_

 

“But it isn’t anything to be afraid of,” Natasha says gently. “You should practice putting one in when you want to go swimming, but you can use whichever you prefer any other time. And you can ask me any time you have a question.”

 

When Natasha is done helping Ionela getting herself cleaned up, they come out of the bathroom to find Bucky still waiting and Natasha squeezes his hand, whispering “That was a good job, Mama Bear.”

 

“I think I had about six heart attacks in an hour.”

 

“Comes with the territory.”

 

“Steve is doing the birds and the bees conversation, I can’t take any more of this.”

\---

Steve strains the tea and spices into each cup and dusts a couple tea spoons of the coconut sugar over each one before bringing it back to the couch and gently placing it in front of Istvan.

 

Istvan stares at the ceramic, blinking in a dazed fashion. Steve…has turned the handle toward his left hand, his dominant hand. Mechanically, he picks the mug up. The moment he lifts his hands, Steve realizes that they’re both shaking, and knows he should’ve been paying more attention to his emotional state.

 

Still allowing his body to go into overdrive, Istvan blows on the liquid before taking a sip. The spices tingle through his mouth and tongue, blossoming like a fiery red flower in his belly.

 

That, oddly enough, is the very last piece of kindness Istvan can take.

 

The emotions that he’s been trying to press down this whole evening suddenly break him open and the first tears escape his control with a loud, raw sob.

 

“Oh, Fane,” Steve breathes, gently pulling the mug from his trembling fingers as the boy chokes another wet sob down. “Come here, darling, it’s okay.”

 

Istvan is expecting to be told that he needs to get ahold of himself, that he’s too old to cry over nothing. Instead, Steve’s long delicate fingers begin stroking through the thick feathery strands of Istvan’s dark hair as his arms come around him. Kissing the crown of his head as his sobbing grows louder and heavier, Steve murmurs “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m here, everything is alright.”

 

This isn’t what Steve wanted, but it might even be better. That stoic, trodden down Istvan feels safe enough to cry – not just _cry_ , but have a complete and total breakdown – means that they might not have reach their destination, but they are at least on the right path.

 

For Istvan, it feels as though every single hurt and torment he’s ever pushed down is suddenly spilling out all at once. Every attempt he makes to get himself under control again only brings on another waves of crying, until he is shivering and tired in Steve’s arms.

 

“ _Imi p-p-pare rau_ ,” he stumbles out, rubbing his face rather adorably.

 

“ _E bine sa plangi_ ,” Steve assures him. God knows it’s a lesson it took him long enough to learn. Crying was sometimes just the only thing you could do to make yourself feel better.

 

Steve lightly lifts the tea back to his lips and slowly lets him finish the drink, Istvan’s head falling back to his shoulder in absolute exhaustion.

 

“ _Băiatul meu sărac, curajos_ ,” he whispers tenderly, running a hand down his trembling spine. Taking advantage of his sudden clinginess, he gives him another kiss on the forehead. _My poor, brave boy._

 

Ionela comes toward them first, running toward her brother before stopping abruptly and staring at them with surprise. Istvan looks back her through bloodshot eyes, still subconsciously clinging to Steve’s shirt.

 

At Bucky and Natasha’s equally surprised entrance, Steve quietly says “I think Fane had a little too much excitement for the day.”

 

Tentatively, Bucky gets his hands around Istvan’s limp back and carefully lifts him, holding his breath until he realizes that the child is not resisting. Since Ionela’s bed is still a mess and it’s past midnight, he raises a brow at Steve. “Bed?”

 

He releases a tired breath. “Lead the way, _a ghra geal_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my quiet 'fuck you' to the tired old trope of men who treat periods like A) the plague or B) some unknowable mystery.
> 
> Honestly this whole series is one big 'fuck you' to toxic masculinity in general, I guess.


	17. dire magicks and odd meeting, part iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got too fucking long, so we're adding another chapter.

Children grow up very quickly.

 

Steve is so careful to watch them, but the twins seem to grow more each time he blinks. He wouldn’t miss a second for the world. The English lessons go more smoothly when he can find a technique that works for them. For Ionela, that came in the form of Jennyanydots and Cat Morgan.

 

He and Bucky knew that Nela liked animals, but she _loves_ cats.

 

Her first Christmas with them, shortly after the incident with her first period, Clint and Natasha buy her a pair of headbands that give her felt ears of her own, one black and one white. She wears one of them literally every single day – until the black set is accidentally stepped on when she and Fane are playing in the park, and the white pair falls into the ocean while they’re all at Coney Island. She cries, and Bucky finds her three new pairs of nicer quality – one in black velvet with a baby blue bow attached, a headband of pink and blue silk flowers with fluffy white ears, and a set of pale pink ones covered in glitter.

 

Getting her to do her lessons is simple – she doesn’t get to play with Morgan or Jenny until she finishes the tasks Steve have given her.

 

Istvan is a little more difficult, but Steve knows that he isn’t doing it on purpose. It’s just…really hard for him to pay attention. Of course, he can tell when Fane is really trying and when he’s just given up for the day, but ADHD is challenging under ideal circumstances.

 

After the first week, he never even bothers trying to get anything out of him before lunch – he has too much energy, and Fane seems used to doing chores and manual labor. The lack makes him even more distractible. Instead, he walks them through meditation exercises and basic stretches after they’re done with breakfast.

 

In the end, it’s actually Coulson who really helps him with ideas around this problem. After being the instructor for both Clint and Daisy, Coulson has had success in both children and adults with attention difficulties.

 

On Daisy’s suggestion, he slowly begins introducing video games when he wants Fane to retain his English lessons, choosing games with minimal and preferably no violence and absolutely _no_ guns. He’ll let him play around with the controls for a while, let him acclimate to the setting, then he’ll just start initiating conversations with him, occasionally giving a gentle reminder to stay in English. Distracted and focused on the moving visuals, Fane will speak entire sentences in accented English without ever slipping up in Romanian.

 

If Fane seems especially restless and twitchy, Steve gives him games that make him use more of his body – _Just Dance_ , usually, or _Guitar Hero_. Puzzle games are a hit and even classics like _Pac-Man_ and _Super Mario_ are a decent distraction, but predictably, Nela likes _Viva Piñata_ with all of its cute candy-animals the best. No matter how many times he plays it though, Fane always seems the most absorbed in _Journey_ – Steve thinks it’s some combination of the motion, the visuals, and the soothing music.

 

It takes nearly a whole year, but when Fane puts down the controller in mid-June, Steve has tears in his eyes.

 

“Dad?” Fane says, alarmed. “What’s wrong?!”

 

“You spoke to me, Fane. You and I were speaking in English, that whole time.”

 

“What? No, I wasn’t,” he immediately denies.

 

“Yes, you were,” Nela disagrees, giggling as she gently swishes Morgan’s tail, the gray tabby gazing at her lovingly through his narrowed eyes. Daisy bought her a new pair of ears on their last trip to Okinawa – deep purple and velvety, with tiny bells that jingle when she turns her head. Wearing them, she’s so cute that Bucky looked visibly pained when he had to leave for work that morning, both twins getting an extra hug or two before he walks out the door.

\---

“A story, Miss Angie! I want a story, please!”

 

“Let’s go ask Uncle Thomas. He’s a much better storyteller than me.”

 

“Ah, yes, let’s see. Hm…in a land far away, there lived a princess named Lenka, who wanted to be a great warrior…”

\---

That September, the Barnes’ decide that Istvan and Ionela were ready for public school – Steve loves spending time with them, but Marvel’s success means that spending only twenty hours a week on his portion of the workload isn’t sustainable in the long-term. Bucky could take over, if he really had to, but they both know they can’t keep them at home forever.

 

Lenka – Yelena – had already been going since the beginning of the year. Despite her tendency to swap out words when she was talking too fast or forgot words, her English was passable enough to manage and seemed to improve more every day.

 

Every day, they grew more and all four of the adults just wanted to keep them this age forever, despite knowing how futile that wish was.

 

Time moved on regardless of their wishes.

 

Steve taught all three of them some basic self-defense – after a very stern talking to from Bucky.

 

“Everything we teach you is to protect yourself. Not tricks to show your friends – and if any of us get a call home about one of you using this stuff when you weren’t in danger, you will be grounded. For six months. Minimum.”

 

Nela thought the lessons were cool, Fane followed along and participated reluctantly, but Lenka was so excited about them that the Bartons finally caved and allowed her to join a competitive Tae Kwon Do team.

 

Well, until her first competition, anyway.

 

Lenka’s coach had rubbed them the wrong way already, but he was a decent teacher and Lenka really, really wanted to join. Things had gone okay until it was time for her to do her first competition. Natasha offered to bring the twins while Steve was in a meeting with Sam and Bucky watched the restaurant so that Clint could go to the match.

 

For the first time since she got them, Ionela took off her ears and put them smartly on Yelena. “Here,” she says with grin. “Today, you’ll be a lucky cat!”

 

Honored, Yelena gently touches the silk flowers and joins the others in the line. Natasha knows there is going to be trouble when she sees the coach’s face as Lenka finishes her match. She wins with mildly shocking ease, and Natasha immediately flags Clint and gets up from her seat, saying “Stay here” to the twins.

 

She knows what the man is saying without even hearing him as he gestures toward her head, and Lenka obviously isn’t bending to his wishes, because she does not take them off. She’s already made the decision that this is her last night in this school, but Natasha then watches him do something she’ll make sure he regrets – he reaches towards her daughter to physically take the headband off her.

 

Unfortunately for the coach, it seems Steve has been diving into a little more than just Tae Kwon Do, at least with Lenka, and the coach startled her in a bad way with anger in his voice as he jerked his arm toward her head. Using pure instinct, she grabs his wrist, twists him by the arm, and turns the other way, dumping him on the floor. A nine-year-old girl, and she just put a grown man on the ground.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clint breathes behind her, as shocked as everyone else.

 

Swiftly releasing the coach’s arm, Lenka’s lower lip starts trembling, her heart pounding with delayed fear. Wailing, she runs straight toward Clint, who immediately drops down to hold her. Natasha will have to talk to Steve about appropriate techniques for an elementary student later, but she can’t say she’s sorry he advanced Lenka by a few extra levels. (She needn’t be so worried – Steve has already warned all three of them that particular move was _only_ for adults.)

 

Wheezing, the coach struggles to get up from the mats. “What have you been teaching that monster?”

 

A few parents nearby are wearing expressions of horror at his behavior, to Natasha’s grim satisfaction. “You tried to manhandle a nine-year-old, I would be careful who you call a monster. She was only defending herself. I have no idea why you thought grabbing a stranger’s child was an appropriate reaction, but you won’t have to worry about having Yelena in your classes any longer,” she says sharply. “And make no mistake – I _will_ be talking to your school’s master trainer. _Tonight_.”

 

Clint picks Lenka up, turns and walks right out, gesturing to the twins from the stands to follow him. “But Papa, I won…”

 

“I know, Lenka. You’ll win next time, too,” he whispers back “But we aren’t letting that man have the credit for training you when he treats his students that way.”

 

A week later, Tyrone is at the children’s next lesson with Steve when Natasha brings Yelena over. “I heard you had a bit of trouble with your coach,” he says kindly, crouching to meet her bright blue eyes. “I think I can help.”

 

The woman is a brunette with a hard jawline and flinty eyes. Brittle and quiet, with a watchful air. “This is Brigid O’Reilly, the reason I didn’t go to juvie. O’Reilly, this is Natasha Barton.”

 

And with that, Steve suddenly knows her – this is Mayhem, Tyrone’s recruiter. He knew her codename and gender, but had never met the woman before today. She got out of the department before he ever joined. If Archangel raised them, Mayhem was the reason Cloak and Dagger existed in the first place.

 

Natasha eyes her carefully “Are you a trainer, Ms. O’Reilly?”

 

She grunts. “NYPD. And that’s _Officer_ O’Reilly to you, Johnson.”

 

Tyrone grins unrepentantly. “Yes ma’am.”

 

He winks at the kids, making them all giggle under their breath.

\---  
“Uncle Thomas, tell us a story.”

 

“Very well. High in the mountains and far away, there lived a clever wizard named Fitzsimmons, and invented a spell to travel across the universe…”

\---

June 2022

Clint usually watches all three of the kids whenever Steve has to be out of town on business with Sam. Because Natasha has convinced him that there are more food groups than pizza, beer, and coffee, that means a trip to Whole Foods.

 

Ionela stays beside him as they walk into the grocery, holding onto Clint’s elbow with one hand, her other arm in a lavender cast. For the twins’ birthday in April, Dad and Tătic bought them a pair of safety helmets, Nela’s with her signature pair of cat ears, with rollerblades for each of them. Uncle Clint had dubbed her ‘Crash Bandi-Cat’ and then promptly despaired when he realized that no one else understood the reference.

 

Sadly, the ‘crash’ part of her nickname became quickly apt. She’d been racing two friends riding dirt bikes and crashed into a literal building when the turn she made was too sharp.

 

Dad was pretty calm about the whole thing – Tătic was…less calm. “Until the doctor says you can take it off, you aren’t doing anything more strenuous than using the bathroom by yourself, _domniţă_.”

 

Ionela had wanted to argue, but his face was still chalky. “Okay, Tătic.”

 

So, she was hanging onto Uncle Clint and Yelena skipped ahead. Behind them, Istvan has headphones in but keeps the three of them in his eyeline. Ionela and Yelena begin playing a game – This Or That.

 

“Ten really tiny spiders or one giant scorpion?” Lenka prompts.

 

“Scorpion.” Nela says immediately.

 

“Why?” she asks, horrified, just as they walk by the huge wall of produce.

 

Rather sensibly, in Clint’s opinion, Nela replies “Because if it’s huge, I always know where it is.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” Clint hides a smile as Yelena puts a number of fruits and vegetables in their cart on autopilot. She’s one of those strange children who actually like spinach and broccoli, and she knows he isn’t so good at remembering those sometimes.

 

Istvan wanders around near the berries, drifting back and forth between fresh fruit and their shopping cart.

 

Clint is occupied by keeping track of two wandering children and listening to the one on his arm.

 

He does not see the man outside the store, ragged and patched, staring feverishly at Yelena through the glass.

\---

“Auntie Carol, can you and Uncle Thomas tell us a story about Daddy and Tătic?”

 

And Tom says “Oh, pet, I’d love to tell you. But you aren’t old enough to hear that story yet.”

\---

Yelena goes to practice with O’Reilly, she plays in the neighborhood with her friends, Aunt Daisy takes her to the movies, Fitzsimmons brings her to a science exhibit, Papa and Uncle Buck take her to the park and the beach.

 

And no one in their life, including Yelena herself, is aware that someone is now following her. That there is someone now _watching_ her, nearly every day.

 

Until one day, Ionela and Istvan are outside the restaurant at one of the wrought iron tables. Ionela and Yelena are playing old-school Pokemon using cards the way Daisy and Fitz had recently taught them, and Istvan is watching figure skating on a tablet and eating Uncle Clint’s apricot kolach.

 

He likes figuring skating, it combines two of his favorite things: nice music, and not sitting still.

 

But when he looks up from his pastry, he realizes that there is a homeless-looking dude watching Ionela and Yelena at the next table.

 

It’s New York City, and his home before that was in a bombed-out city in a war-torn country. He’s familiar with the destitute. Tătic has explained before that they are almost always ill in their mind and usually have been to war, like himself and Uncle Clint. One of the restaurant workers will usually leave them a plate of the night’s leftovers for them. They are…saddening, but he and Ionela don’t find them, for the most part, _disturbing_.

 

This guy is a bit shorter than average, stocky, with sandy hair. His clothes are well-worn but clean and while he could use a bit of a shave, he wasn’t dirty.

 

Istvan finishes his pastry, and makes a mental note to tell Aunt Nat about him but when she comes out to check on them, the man is gone.

 

He notices the man again when he walks with Yelena to the bodega a few weeks later, but does not find this odd. Perhaps he is new in this neighborhood?

 

It isn’t until Istvan is helping Aunt Nat clean the restaurant and happens to glance out the window where Yelena is coloring in her book.

 

The man is there again, and watching her. Watching Yelena.

 

A weird feeling crawls up his spine. Istvan has never actively had to protect anyone but Ionela before but this definitely does not feel okay to him. “Aunt Natalia,” he says, careful and slow so that his meaning will be understood “There is a-a man who…who _watches_..Yelena.”

 

Natasha looks up sharply when he says this, and when Istvan points the man out to her, her face darkens dangerously. “Good boy, Fane,” she says. “Go get Uncle Clint and your Tătic.”

 

Then she grabs a cast iron pan and marches out to the street like a soldier going to war. Confused at her sudden and angry appearance, Yelena looks up and says “Mama?”

 

Natasha’s first swing misses, the weight of the pan more than she’s used to as a weapon, but she is undeterred by it, aiming once more at his skull. Growling as the man squawks and cowers, she hisses “How _dare_ you…how _dare you_ come here, you worthless son of bitch!”

 

He raises his hands in surrender, ducking and dodging rapidly from Natasha’s fury. He is only saved from having his head cracked like an egg by Bucky quickly grabbing Natasha’s arm as she draws back to swing once more. “Put it down, _devotchka_.”

 

Jogging up behind them, Clint pants “Fane said…something…was…up…”

 

Natasha glares at the man cowering on the ground. “ _Medvezhonok_ will not allow me to kill him.”

 

Bucky’s expression is not any more friendly than hers. He looks like he would do away with the skillet and use his fists instead. “This piece of garbage isn’t worth going to prison for, Natalia.”

 

“Oh,” Clint says, winded. “Uh…hey, Barney.”

 

“Hi, little brother.”

\---

“Uncle Thomas, tell us a story!”

 

“Get into the bed. With the covers up, yes. Once upon a time, there were two mighty princes who lived in a land of magic. These two were brothers, and the best of friends, until one day…”

\---

Rubbing his jaw, Clint leads his brother to one of the outside tables and says “Why didn’t you just…I don’t know? Say hello? Stop by for a coffee? Not like…spend weeks stalking my daughter.”

 

Barney shrugs and stares down at his hands. “Figured I wasn’t welcome.” He gives a nod toward Bucky and says “Your husband doesn’t seem to like me much.”

 

Bucky and Clint exchange looks of stunned disbelief. “You…wanted to come see me, even though you think I’m gay?”

 

“Yeah. I-I got sober a couple of years ago. Tried to find you. Apologize.” Flushing sheepishly, Barney says “Rollins used to say you were fu-screwing around with your teammate and when I talked to her, Sheila told me you were livin’ together now.” Hastily, he adds “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a fa-”

 

“DON’T,” Clint and Bucky both bark at the same time, Barney flinching back.

 

“Don’t ever say that word in front of my kids,” Bucky says harshly. “And I’m not his spouse, I’m his friend.”

 

“I’m his spouse,” Natasha says, steely and cold. “You-” she points at Barney “You aren’t setting a single _foot_ in my house.”

 

“You married the hot redhead?” Barney asks, surprised. “Nice!”

 

Dryly, Clint says “Yeah, that’s why she tried to kill you. She tends to do that to people who make me miserable.”

 

Barney winces and Natasha says “Now you’re going to tell me why you’ve been stalking our daughter.”

 

“I was just keepin’ an eye on her. You guys are…pretty trusting, letting her play by herself like that.”

 

Natasha laughs at him and then says something to Yelena that makes her come to her mother’s side. “Go ahead,” she says with a broad smile. “Try to grab her.”

 

Uncertainly, Barney reaches for Yelena’s hand, and Natasha stops him. “No, Bernard. Like you mean it.”

 

He lunges, Yelena drops her weight, flipping him right over her shoulder and knocking the air from his lungs. Barney is left gasping on the pavement while Yelena runs back to Natasha. “That was excellent, Lenka! Just like Miss Brigid showed you.”

 

“Brilliant,” Clint whispers to her, giving Yelena a kiss. “That was just brilliant.”

 

“Okay,” Barney wheezes. “Okay, point taken.”

\---

July 2023

“Uncle Thomas,” Istvan asks tentatively, the firelight crackling around them. The fireworks had stopped an hour ago and then Bobbi and Mack had made them all s’mores. “Are we old enough to hear the story of Dad and Tătic now?”

 

At this, Ionela straightened beside him, appearing more awake at once.

 

Uncle Fitz told them Uncle Thomas’ stories were allegories for actual events years ago, after also telling them that they weren’t allowed to hear the full versions – now or ever. Instead he created fictional means to tell them of events that had really happened – like the Bear Prince who was hunted for his beautiful pelt, until he was saved by a little Elf Princess, that one was about Tătic and Aunt Jemma.

 

Uncle Thomas and Aunt Carol made them seem like wonderful fairytales, so that their parents wouldn’t have reveal the nightmares they were underneath.

 

Tom looks up at the endless twinkling of the night sky above and then looks at Carol, who sighs and says “Alright.”

 

Daisy immediately settles into the circle with them, the other adults only half-listening. Yelena is nearly asleep on Fitz’s lap.

 

Carol squeezes into the chair beside Tom, heedless of his grumbling while he continues to look into the darkness. Finally, he echoes her “Alright,” and then says “This is the story of a brother and sister. Their mother was the sun, and their father was the moon, and they were as close as a heartbeat to each other. They were born in the open fields, and their parents named their son Evening Star, and their daughter Morning Star.”

 

“Now Evening Star and Morning Star were as alike as twins could be, but they were as different, too. Morning Star liked to walk through the fields and commune with her mother. She liked the fine clothes the humans made, and her voice could make the wind stop to listen and her laughter made the flowers bloom.”

 

“But Evening Star was a feral thing, a grim and brutal child. No smiles or laughter did he have. He raced through the dark woods in the nighttime, hunting every beast that walked, swam, and flew. Their flesh he ate raw, and no clothing did he wear but their blood.”

 

“Why?” Daisy asks softly, horrified and fascinated.

 

“Because,” Tom tells her solemnly. “He was a wild creature, and wild creatures know nothing about kindness, or joy, or mercy.”

 

“That’s awful,” Istvan whispers.

 

“Yes,” he agrees simply. “At any rate, the first part of this story does not concern him, not entirely.” Carol gives him a look, which he pretends not to see. “Morning Star was a daring girl, and she grew bored with roaming the lands her parents ruled – she wandered into the lands ruled by the wolf-god of the forest, who demanded a price for her free entry into his kingdom.”

 

“Now, the wolf-god thought himself a cunning creature, and he decided to play an amusing trick on Morning Star. ‘ _I have everything any creature could need,_ ’ he told her ‘ _But there is still one thing I desire: my love is the fairest creature in any land. Bring them to me, and I shall grant you passage to my kingdom_.’”

 

“Morning Star was also a clever lass and she had her own joke for the wolf-god. At first, she teased him, brought frogs and fish and insects. Despite tempting his wrath, Morning Star could tell he was amused. But after half a year, she began to search in earnest. She asked each creature about their fairest lad or lass, but the god of the forest refused them all.”

 

She thought the likeliest candidate was the wolf-maiden, but he only said ‘ _The Wolf Lass is as swift as the wind, but my love’s eyes are far finer_.’

 

So she brought him the Mouse Maid. ‘ _The Mouse Maid’s eyes are very fine, but my love is a proud beauty.’_

_‘The Cat Queen is a proud beauty, ‘tis true_ ,’ he said ‘ _But my love has a voice as silver as the moon.’_

_‘The Swan Princess’s voice is beautiful to hear, but my love is a fiercer hunter.’_

_‘The She-Bear is indeed fierce to see, but my love is more cunning than she.’_

_‘The Vixen has great cunning, but my love has a more graceful step.”_

 

“The task that had started as an amusement, a joke. At first, the wolf-god laughed with her, but as she grew to like him, she began to take his order more seriously, searching harder for the right person. And the longer she searched, the graver he became. Each failed attempt made him look more sorrowful, and made Morning Star feel more guilty – she began to dread her task. She had tried the most lovely of each of the species in the forest, but he had rejected every one of them. Finally, she believed she understood his riddle. She knew of only one creature that could fulfill so many of his demands.”

 

“She found her brother kneeling upon the snow, his fingers still tacky with the blood of a hare. ‘ _Do you trust me, my beloved?_ ’ she asked him. And Evening Star said ‘ _I trust no other’_. This was how he allowed Morning Star to wash the blood from his hands and mouth, and drape him in white cloth, and lead him down the mountain to the forest and its god.”

 

“Morning Star was so confident in her choice that she was radiant with it, her father the moon shining upon her golden gown. ‘ _My cunning lad_ ,’ she sang out to the wolf-god ‘ _I have found your love_!’.”

 

“But from the moment he laid eyes upon Evening Star, she knew that she had made a mistake. The wolf-god’s face was nothing but sorrow, and Morning Star became angry. ‘ _Is he not swift?’_ She demanded, _‘Is he not graceful? Is he not fierce, proud, and cunning? Are his eyes not fine? Is his voice not as silver as the moon gave him?’_ ”

 

And the wolf-god looked sick with grief as he gave his answer. ‘ _My lass, thy brother’s face is indeed fair to see, but my love’s is fairer still than he_.’

 

Evening Star said, ‘ _I have never seen such fools in my life’_ and waded across the river alone, as he preferred.

 

Morning Star was now very upset. ‘ _I do not believe such a creature exists_!’ she cried, shaking him. ‘ _There is no man or maiden like this anywhere in the land_.’

 

Quietly, he asked her ‘ _Do you admit your failure, Morning Star_?’

 

And she said ‘ _I do, wolf.’_

_‘I will allow you into my lands for another price. Will you pay it?_ ’

 

_‘Yes, wolf.’_

_‘I will have your crown of pearls.’_

 

She took it from her hair and gave it to him.

 

_‘I will have your silver shoes.’_

 

She gave him her shoes and stood barefoot in the grass.

 

_‘I will have your golden dress.’_

 

Furious and humiliated, Morning Star stands before him, naked in the grove, stripped of her fine clothes. And the wolf-god holds out his hand to her and says _‘Come, lassie, I will show you where to find my love_.’

 

He brings her to the bank of the river, and leads her into the water. Morning Star said ‘ _I have already brought you the Siren, and the Mermaid. You turned them away, like the others_.’

 

‘ _Look closer, my maiden, you will see her_.’ Morning Star sees only the reflection of her nakedness, which the god points to and says ‘ _There is my love. And if she will not come to me, I will have no one.’_


	18. midsummer, midwinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Exhausted, but this was worth it.

 

 

‘ _Look closer, my maiden, you will see her_.’ Morning Star sees only the reflection of her nakedness, which the god points to and says ‘ _There is my love. And if she will not come to me, I will have no one.’_

 

“So?” Ionela demands, impatient and enthralled. “What happened to Morning Star and the wolf-god?”

 

“They got married, and lived happily ever after,” Carol says pointedly, gesturing toward the lack of space between her and Tom in the chair.

 

She and Daisy both blink. Apparently even as their listeners knew the story was about them, Tom’s telling had caused them to forget that they already knew how this particular tale ended.

 

Istvan was even more eager now. “What about Dad and Tătic?”

 

Carol glances over quickly, and checks that Yelena is already asleep. She will leave a great deal of the more gruesome details out, but she does not want to sugarcoat this more than necessary, fairytale or not. “Let us return back to Evening Star.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“He had a truly terrible secret,” she whispers. “One that only Morning Star knew. When he was hardly more than a child, Evening Star encountered a witch as he waded through the great river, and this witch saw that he was savage and feral. Wild beings wish more than anything to remain wild and free. For her amusement, she placed a curse upon Evening Star.”

 

“What kind of curse?” Ionela breathes, sitting between Daisy’s legs.  

 

“She pulled his heart from his chest and held it in her hand. _What a cruel thing you are!_ she said. _How cold and hard! Let’s see if we can soften that chilly heart_. Then she pulled away one of his heartstrings,” Carol says, making a plucking motion with her fingers. Her audience flinches. “This she turned into a chain, which she placed into his keeping. Fine enough to pass through the eye of a needle and made of pure gold, it was stronger than anything made of iron or steel. So tiny the eyes could scarcely see it were engraved the words: _whomever holds me shall possess the heart of the Evening Star.”_

 

“The very sight of this artifact filled Evening Star with a terrible horror and revulsion. At first, he took it to the deepest part of the woods, dug a hole in the cold dark ground and threw it down hole, vowing to himself that he would forget such a thing ever existed.”                  

 

“However, the disgust and fear of it stayed with him, and the thought of some unknown person stumbling across it haunted his nightmares. Not only that: the golden chain whispered to him from all the way across the forest of its cold and its solitude down there, lying in the dark and frozen earth, pleading with him for the warmth of sunlight and a gentle hand. It drove Evening Star nearly mad, until he was forced to return to the pit and dig the chain back up again. This time, he gave it to his sister, allowing her to wear it like a common piece of jewelry.”

 

“But holding the chain revealed a truly awful thing to Morning Star: with the golden strand in her keeping, she could force Evening Star to do whatever she wished. His will was entirely her own as long as she held that heartstring. When she returned to him, he attempted to refuse her. He did not enjoy the idea of being prey to his sister’s every whim, but he liked having it in his own possession even less. The object spoke to him, crooning about the poverty of its loneliness, its longing and need of affection.”

 

“In another man, this might perhaps inspire sympathy or pity – but these were not in his nature, the heartstring’s neediness filled Evening Star to the brim with nothing but cold rage. His fury was so immense that he tried to destroy the chain, but even his own hand could not break it.”

 

“It was soon after this that many men began approaching him, desiring the string of gold Evening Star held. They did not see his feral nature, they had eyes only for the precious metal – he realized that none of them even understood what the piece was, they simply wanted a pretty bauble.”

 

“Evening Star saw into their hearts as easily as he could see a doe creeping through the dusky wood, and there was nothing but greed and cruelty there. So, Evening Star decided to give them what they wanted – he twined the beautiful golden strand round their necks, and choked each one to death.”

 

Daisy inhaled sharply. The twins were going to grow up assuming that this sentence was a metaphor for something, but she had a feeling that Carol meant this in a very literal manner.

 

“Morning Star watched her brother drag their bodies away and toss them into the marshlands and was filled with despair. She could not deny that they had not been good men, but she also could not conceal her dismay that her brother had even managed to make his own heart into a weapon. But we have another hero in this tale…”

 

It was here that Tom began taking over the story again at last. “In a land far to the east of the wolf-god’s forest, there lived four siblings: two boys, and two girls. The eldest of these was called Waits-For-Winter’s-End. His brother was called Falls-Beneath-The-Waves, and his two sisters were Hope-Springs-Eternal and Summer-Skies. Winter, Fall, Spring, and Summer.”

 

“Winter, Summer, Fall, and Spring lived in the high mountains, and each morning, Winter walked down the mountainside to bring back fresh meat and cut wood for the fire. Spring was prone to worrying, and so to make sure that he was still alright, she would sing down the mountainside: ‘ _brother, how does thou keep warm_?’

 

“He would answer back up to her, _‘I walk in the shadow of the winter, the better to find the sun!’_. And then Spring would return to her chores, knowing that Winter was okay.”

 

Tugging gently on the ends of Daisy’s hair, Tom adds “Now, the youngest among them was Summer, a pretty and happy girl that her siblings doted upon, but Winter was especially fond of her. So sweet and lovely was she that one day, a strong and handsome warrior asked for his permission to wed her.”

 

Daisy gulps a little. Oh dear. She had a feeling she knew who that was.

 

“This warrior did not please Winter, though,” Carol informs them. “His love was a dark ugly thing, and Winter would not allow him to take his beloved Summer away from her family. The warrior was angry, but he left the mountain without a fuss. However, the next morning, when Spring called ‘ _brother, how does thou keep warm_?’, there was…no answer.”

 

“This handsome warrior was close allies with a sorcerer of wicked power, and he gifted the warrior with a special arrow. _Prick the skin of Winter but once_ , the sorcerer told him, _and his mind will succumb to your wishes. He shall agree to anything you ask, and Summer will then be yours for the taking_.”

 

“Perhaps this would have worked the way he intended it to, but you will remember that Spring is a worried sister. She wove her brother a special cloak using four impossible things and placed an enchantment of protection over it. The arrow pierced through it, straight into his shoulder and he fell, down, down, all the way to the bottom of the mountains. Winter’s mind did not belong to the warrior, but it was no longer his own. When he awake, he was no longer himself.”

 

“He wandered many, many leagues and walked both night and day, neither eating nor sleeping. If he felt pain, he ignored it and if he felt pleasure, he was not aware of it. Until at last, he came upon the lands walked by the Sun and Moon. From her perch in the high fields, Morning Star saw him approaching and asked her husband _‘What kind of being can hush the fields and birds and make the night grow still?’_ , and the wolf-god said, _‘Winter does’_.”

 

Tom says, “Knowing her brother’s reckless nature, she asked him not to walk to Winter in the fields, but Evening Star felt a strange compulsion that day.” Looking at his niece and nephew, he asks “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

 

“…yes?” Ionela says with an audible question mark, as though this is the answer she is expected to give.

 

“No,” Istvan mutters, picking at the hem of his shirts. It’s a classic sign that he’s thinking something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

 

He can see Daisy biting her lip, so waits for her answer, but she finally shakes her head and allows him to continue. “On that day, without even knowing his own name or his own mind, as he gazed upon his face for the very first time, Winter fell quite madly in love with Evening Star.”

 

“That’s it?” Istvan asks, incredulous. “Just like that?”

 

“Just like that,” Carol confirms. “But that isn’t quite _it_ – Evening Star was well accustomed to men approaching him, asking how they might win his golden band and so he made himself appear to be the prey. ‘ _Is my jewelry not fine, handsome stranger_?’ he asked Winter. And he answered, ‘ _It is fine, indeed’_.”

 

“ _Would you not like to wear it?_ ’ Evening Star asked slyly, running the chain through his long fingers. And Winter, made dumb by the wrecking of his mind, no longer possessed any social graces or a cunning tongue, but told Evening Star bluntly, ‘ _It beauty rests better upon thee, dear one. Perhaps about thy slender waist – I should long to see it there, while I make love to you’_.”

 

On the other side of the fire, Bucky chokes on air while Steve hides his blush and his smile by shoving the last of his s’more into his mouth. That…wasn’t a whole lot different than their first few conversations, to be honest.

 

Scarlet in the face and wide-eyed, Istvan demands “He didn’t _really_?”

 

“Yes, he did,” Carol answers firmly. “And Evening Star was just as stunned as you are. No one had ever spoken to him this way. The people he met had eyes only for the gold, they had hardly noticed _him_. Naturally, he was taken aback. ‘ _Shall I just lie down for you now_?’ he asked sarcastically. Guileless Winter said…”

 

“ _Oh no, my darling_ ,” Tom quotes in a murmur. “ _You will get the finest I can acquire. Silk, for your soft pale skin. Feathers, for you to lay upon. Fur, to keep my love warm. Only then will I have you._ ’ Horrified and reluctantly enthralled, Evening Star said _‘You must be half-mad. I am no one’s love. What if I do not agree to this?_ ”

 

“Evening Star did not understand that Winter was the patient sibling, hushed and waiting for all the world during the long, dark nights, quiet and watchful. ‘ _Then I shall court you, my great beauty, the way any man should court his love’_. For perhaps the first time in his long life, Evening Star felt a small spark of pity for this man. There was nothing about him, to his mind, that warranted such devotion. ‘ _And if I should say I do not desire that either?_ ”

 

“Winter’s face fell. ‘ _Then I should leave you, beauty. Though not gladly_.’ Staring at Evening Star’s expression, he knew already what his answer would be. Sadly, he said ‘ _May I be granted with one thing before I depart_?”

 

“ _You may ask.”_

_“One kiss.”_

_“One kiss? You would not rather have my chain? Money? Stardust?”_

_“Your lips on mine, just once, little darling. That is all I ask for_.’ Perhaps Evening Star was more innocent than he once believed or perhaps he was merely foolish. He pressed his mouth to Winter’s, more gently than he had ever done anything, and then continued walking through the high hills, just as he did each night.”

 

“Nothing appeared to change for him, or so he believed. He had fooled himself into thinking that moment of small kindness meant nothing. But he grew uneasy as the days past. At odd moments, he found himself considering the color of Winter’s eyes, or the memory of lips on his own. He felt feverish and restless. His patience was smaller even as his temper grew. So ill at ease was he that he ran to Morning Star. _‘Sister, I am sick. I am cursed. I know not which!_ ’ he told her.”

 

Carol tells them: “Morning Star took his face in her hands, and examined Evening Star carefully. His eyes were dark and wild, his skin hot to the touch, his breath fast. Astonished, she exclaimed ‘ _But you are not unwell! My dear brother, you…are in love!_ ’. She could see how uneasy this proclamation made her brother and said _‘What is his name? I must meet this man’_.”

 

“ _It does not matter_ ,’ Evening Star said angrily ‘ _Because this is not so_.’ He tore through the hills and fields, raced through woods and rivers. Birds fled from him. Wolves howled at the sight of him. Hares and foxes hid at the sound of his step. He paced and raged. Many times, he thought of finding Winter again. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps if he were to acquiesce to the stranger’s sweet words, if he laid in the fine bed promised to him but once, he would be rid of this odd fever that had overtaken him.”

 

“But he never did it – an awful terror trembled through him at the idea, had his fingers shaking on his heartstring. Not at the thought of Winter, of that princely bed that awaited, but at the passing whisper that perhaps Morning Star was right: perhaps he was in love, and he would never want to leave his bed again.”

 

“From far away, those with less than the best of intentions had begun hearing rumors of a special piece of jewelry, a length of gold that could grant the one who held it a great power, if only they acquired it from the necklace’s current owner. Unfortunately, one of the ears who decided to investigate this rumor had the worst intentions of all. He declared to his compatriots that he would take the chain and the young man who held it, and neither knew nor cared if Evening Star would object to this.”

 

“Among these men was Winter, who realized that this mercenary wanted his darling, his Evening Star. Frantic, he realized that he had to find some way to warn him of the danger that was coming, but he came upon him too late. The mercenary already had Evening Star within his grasp. ‘ _Thy life or thy gold, young lad_ ,’ he said, with a very ugly smile.”

 

“To both the mercenary and Winter’s great surprise, Evening Star only offered the heartstring out to him with a coy smile. ‘ _Take it from me then, brave swordsman, if you can_.’ Sick, Winter watched the mercenary grab the chain from his beloved’s hand and Evening Star’s eyes closed, his smile going from coy to almost wistful. The chain vanished from thin air as soon as it reached the mercenary’s hand and the man became furious. ‘ _What kind of trick is this? Bring it back_!’”

 

“And Evening Star replied, ‘ _I cannot take it back. It was never mine to give you. Search the world over again and it will not return to your hand_.’ He banished the mercenary from the land of the Sun and Moon, with a power so great that it shook the very earth and sky, and found that Winter stood before him. The great light of the Evening Star had returned his mind to itself. Winter was both proud and concerned for his Evening Star. ‘ _What magic have you wrought to trick him so?_ ’ he asked. Evening Star would not meet his eye, but said ‘ _Check your pocket, sir_.”

 

“Coiled innocently within Winter’s pocket was the golden chain. ‘ _This is indeed clever, dear one. You are a skilled sorcere_ r.’ To Evening Star’s surprise, he gave it back to him. ‘ _I shall give you back your princely raiment_.’ Evening Star looked disappointed, saying ‘ _My words were true, sir. I cannot take it back. Drop it down a well or throw it to the sea or bury it within the deepest hole, but it is yours now_.’ With that, he returned to the high hills.”

 

“Filled with sadness as he was, Evening Star finally felt a peace within himself that had eluded him all his days. His heart he had now given away, and though in a way, his love still tormented him, it was not such a heavy and unbearable weight on his spirit. He would return to his mother the Sun and his father the Moon, to his sister Morning Star, and no more would his mind be filled with madness and rage.”

 

“I…I don’t understand,” Istvan says slowly. “Evening Star finally loves him, too, and he just…walked away?”

 

Gently, Thomas says “Winter did not know the value of the thing he possessed, and Evening Star took his attempt to return the item as a rejection.”  

 

Carol continues her tale. “Winter, his memories now returned, went to find his family. Summer, Spring, and Fall were so delighted that he’d come home that they celebrated for a year and a day, until they were all exhausted and slept for another year besides. That whole year of rest, the golden heartstring whispered to Winter of its adoration.”

 

_“…Him that I love, I bless for all his days._

_Him that I love, once loved me and was scorned._

_Him that I love, only coldness gave I._

_Him that I love, loves me no more._

_Him that I love, I wish only joy._

_Him that I love, will love another and I will grant them the beauty of dusk._

_Him that I love, shall have a child and I will give them the light of the stars._

_Him that I love, I bless for all his days_

_Him that I love, I bless for all his days_

_Him that I love, I bless for all his days…”_

 

“Startled, Winter woke from his long rest to find the chain was no longer in his pocket, but he now held it in his hand. Dazed, he stared down at the beauty of the glimmering gold and finally saw the tiny letters engraved upon the metal: _whomever holds me shall possess the heart of the Evening Star_.”

 

“As fast as he could, Winter began tripping his way back down the mountain. Behind him, he heard Spring call ‘ _Oh brother, how does thou keep warm_?’ and Winter cried back ‘ _With the light of the Evening Star_!’. It was many leagues back to the land of the Sun and Moon, but just as the first time, Winter neither ate nor slept until he reached the high hills where Evening Star’s mother and father never rose or set.”

 

“There, a woman in golden gown stopped him and Winter did not know her. She said ‘ _Halt, why do you approach, stranger, in the land of my mother and father?_ ’ and Winter said, ‘ _You are a child of the Sun and Moon?_ ’ and she answered ‘ _The daughter of the Sun and Moon. Ruler of the Dawn. I am the Morning Star. For what reason have you come to this land?_ ”

 

“ _Please, my lady, I want to know where to find your brother the Evening Star_.’ It was then Morning Star realized she must be gazing upon the man that had driven her brother half-mad with the all-consuming love that was so foreign to his nature. ‘ _Then you may return from whence you came,_ ’ she said, dismissing him. ‘ _Evening Star has no more light to give.”_

 

“This filled Winter with great concern. ‘ _Has he taken ill? Is he hurt_?’ he asked. ‘ _What care you if so?_ ’ she said, turning away. ‘ _There is nothing here for you. Go_.’ Winter, desperate now, pleaded with her. ‘ _I cannot, milady. Not until I see him_.’ Holding out the chain, he said ‘ _Please, I need to see him. I will wait all night and all day if I must_.”

 

“Winter saw the way Morning Star looked at the length of beautiful gold, stunned and horrified all at once. ‘ _I have come to court him, if he will have me. He might say nay, but I shall not leave until I hear it_.”

 

“Morning Star’s eyes were filled with scorn. ‘ _You may easily summon him – that chain might as well be around my brother’s neck. Simply say the word, and he will be compelled to you.’_ Winter was appalled. ‘ _I will not force him to me. I will have him of his own free will or not at all_.’ Morning Star looked shrewd. ‘ _Very well. I will tell him of your arrival, and he may appear or not_.”

 

“He waited, as promised, all day and the whole of the night. It had been hours, and he had long since assumed Evening Star would not come to him, but Winter could not bring himself to leave. Hours later, as he rested beneath the willows on the riverbank, his love came over the banks looking very solemn. ‘ _My sister tells me you must see me, that you were very insistent_.”

 

“ _Him that I love_ ,” Winter whispered. “ _I will bless all his days. My darling, my Evening Star. Him that I love, I am his, forever and always._ ’ And then Winter saw the most marvelous thing!”

 

“What?” Daisy asked eagerly, entirely caught up.

 

“Evening Star smiled for him. ‘ _Him that I love, I love for all my days_.’ And Winter, smitten with his smiles, said ‘ _Wear your pretty chain about thy waist, my love, and let me make thee a fine bed to lay upon. Be mine, and only mine_.”

 

“Evening Star was so much in love that he placed some of his own stardust within Winter’s palms and bid him to breathe his love upon it. A lovely flower bloomed from that handful of stardust, an evening primrose, and when Winter opened the petals there were two beautiful children inside, a boy and girl with hair as dark as a winter’s night,” she says, reaching out to stroke Istvan and Ionela’s hair. She kisses them both upon the head. “The girl, they named ‘Midsummer’ and the boy, they named ‘Midwinter’, and they all lived happily ever after.”

 

“The end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a couple of short pieces left in this series, including:  
> 1) Yelena's chaotic marriage to a rich man and his scary family  
> 2) Istvan realizing when independence veers into crippling isolation  
> 3) letters sent between Natasha's parents, Alian and Illyana  
> 4) how Thomas accidentally sets up a Scourge of the Underworld with his niece  
> 5) a brief look into an alternate universe
> 
> Let me know on this last chapter what everyone is interested in seeing first and thank you for sticking with me :)


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